


In the Heat of the Moment

by orderlychaos



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, Explosions, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mission Fic, SHIELD didn't fall, SO MUCH SARCASM, Sarcasm, cameo by Melinda May, cameo by Nick Fury - Freeform, cameo by Sharon Carter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-01 06:24:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12150546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orderlychaos/pseuds/orderlychaos
Summary: “Please tell me our urgent mission is actually a secret vacation on a beach somewhere?” Clint muttered into Phil’s collar.“Unfortunately, no,” Phil replied.Clint sighed.  “Dammit.”Life as a SHIELD agent was never easy and frequently difficult, but the last few months had Phil tearing out what was left of his hair.  Even for SHIELD, it was bordering on ridiculous, and that didn’t even include the Avenger shenanigans that Clint was now regularly involved in.  All Phil had wanted was to spend time with his boyfriend when they were both in the same hemisphere.  Maybe he should have been careful what he wished for, because this was not what he’d meant at all.Dammit.  Phil was never going to get a chance to propose.(Not that proposing was the priority right now.  Not when they had certain doom to thwart.  Again.)Or, Clint and Phil go on a mission and sarcasm, explosions, romance and marriage proposals abound!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yakkorat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yakkorat/gifts).



> This is a VERY belated birthday fic for Yakkorat. Sorry it's taken so long! <3
> 
> Story notes: This fic is canon divergent from the end of the events of the first Avengers movie, but does draw on a few elements from CA:TWS and CA:CW. In this ‘verse, the Avengers were told afterwards of Phil’s survival, and SHIELD didn’t fall. I’m also borrowing a bit from the comics canon rather than the MCU for a few things (that are hopefully explained in the fic).
> 
> Also, thank you to Ralkana for all the help, and making this so much better <3

Almost as soon as Clint Barton’s boots hit the Helicarrier’s flight deck, a piercing whistle cut through the air.  The sound was loud enough to send a sharp pain stabbing through Clint’s brain, even over the roar of the ‘jet’s engines powering down.  It was quite the feat, but then no one had ever accused Maria Hill of being an underachiever.  Not to her face, anyway, and not for long.

Around Clint, the rest of the SHIELD strike team hustled off the ‘jet with their gear, anxious to debrief after their long ass mission in Cape Town.  Captain Rogers and Natasha Romanoff sauntered down the ramp behind them.  It was still weird for Clint to acknowledge he was on the same team as _Captain America_ , but Rogers wasn’t all bad.  The more Clint learned about _Steve_ , the more he understood why Captain Rogers had been Phil Coulson’s childhood hero.

Not that Clint was thinking about Phil.  Nope.  Not when he hadn’t seen his boyfriend for more than a few minutes every few weeks for _three months_.  Seriously, Clint was ready to go on strike if things didn’t change soon.

He glanced over at Maria, wincing as the movement pulled at the bandaged cut on his neck.  The injury wasn’t serious, but it would have been if Natasha hadn’t been watching his back.  That close call was yet another reason why Clint needed to take a few days downtime _with Phil_ to get his head screwed on straight.  The Phil part was non-negotiable, because maybe then his guts wouldn’t be twisting into knots just because he was _standing_ on the Helicarrier.

(Phil was somewhere on the Helicarrier, dammit.  Unless he’d been sent on another last-minute mission, and if that was the case, Clint was _really_ going on strike.  Fury could suck it.)

Still, Clint didn’t exactly have time to dwell.  Shoving his feelings back into their box, he headed over to where Maria was waiting, SHIELD-tab in her hands.  Judging by the steel in Maria’s spine, Clint wasn’t getting any downtime soon.

“Hawkeye, Black Widow,” Maria greeted with a nod when they were close enough.  “Captain Rogers.”

“Hill,” Clint replied.

“Commander Hill, do we have a problem?” Captain Rogers asked, pausing beside Clint.

Maria’s gaze flickered in Rogers’ direction.  “There is a situation, yes,” she said, “but it only requires Barton’s attention.  There is, however, a connected matter that the Director would like to brief you and Agent Romanoff on.  He’s waiting for you in Room 12B, Captain.”

Steve hesitated, clearly torn between standing by his teammate and following orders, but Clint barely noticed over the sudden thundering of his heart.  He had no idea what his face looked like, but he shook his head when Natasha shot him a sharp glance, her hand straying to one of her holstered guns.  If Maria wanted to talk to him alone, then it could only be about one thing.

Phil.

Working with Steve was still strained after Phil’s miraculous resurrection.  Clint had been pretty out of it most of the way through the battle, barely focusing on more than taking Loki down.  Afterwards, Natasha had explained how Fury had used Phil’s death to motivate Steve and Stark to work together, and how it had ultimately worked.  Part of Clint could understand why Steve and Stark were still so mad at the manipulation, but mostly Clint was just happy to have his deadpan, snarky boyfriend back in one piece.  All of which made things more than a little awkward now that he was working with Steve, but Clint was dealing with it.

“If you’re sure you don’t need my help,” Steve said, still hesitating.

Maria shook her head.  “Hawkeye can handle it,” she said.  “And you have your own mission to deal with, Captain.”

With a final nod, Steve headed for his own briefing, Natasha giving Clint a lingering look before following.  When Clint glanced back at Maria, Maria angled her chin towards the Helicarrier interior.  She led the way towards the upper level meeting rooms in silence, waving Clint through a door.

As soon as Clint caught sight of who was inside, he froze.  “Phil?” he rasped, his voice suddenly as weak as his knees.

“Hi, Clint,” Phil said softly.

Fuck, Phil looked good.  Well, okay, he was pale and had dark shadows under his eyes that were starting to rival horror movie makeup, but it was _Phil_.  Phil always looked good.  Especially since his tie was loose and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows.  It probably meant the situation was already FUBAR, but hey, forearms.  Clint was going to take what he could get.  While Phil hesitated, his eyes roaming all over Clint as if checking for injuries, Clint had no such restraint.  He strode forward and pulled Phil into as tight a hug as he dared, mashing his face into the side of Phil’s neck.

“Please tell me our urgent mission is actually a secret vacation on a beach somewhere?” Clint muttered into Phil’s collar.

“Unfortunately, no,” Phil replied.

Clint sighed.  “Dammit.”

He pulled away, because Clint was a professional when it counted, but Phil shifted to press his arm against Clint’s.  Clint hid a smile, tangling their fingers together, because he couldn’t bear to not be touching Phil, either.  When Maria saw that she had their attention again, she nodded.  Truthfully, Clint was beyond grateful she’d given him a minute to greet Phil.

“Okay,” Maria said, folding her hands behind her back like the Marine she’d once been.  “I’m going to get straight to the point.”  She took a deep breath.  “I need you and Phil to investigate a set of coordinates in the middle of the Colombian jungle.”

Clint blinked.  “Say what now?”

Maria huffed.  “If it helps, I think it’s coordinates for an extraction,” she said.  “We have an undercover asset in the area.  But in case it’s not, I need you and Coulson to investigate what’s going on.”

Raising his eyebrows, Clint nodded.  Back when Clint and Natasha had been two thirds of Strike Team Delta, they’d pulled a lot of SHIELD assets out of bad situations.  More than half the time, Phil had been the other third of their trio, so it shouldn’t have been that weird for Maria to ask.  Of course, SHIELD also had several other strike teams dedicated to this sort of thing, so Clint was betting there was a catch.

“Uh huh,” he said.  “Now I know I’m good, and I am _so_ not objecting to kicking butt with Phil, but why me?  Why not one of the other strike teams?  Preferably someone who _hasn’t_  already been awake for twenty-six hours.”

“Mostly?  They’re busy on other ops,” Phil quipped.

Maria glared at him before she let out a breath.  “Because this is part of an ongoing operation that Phil is already familiar with, and well, because the undercover asset is Bobbi Morse,” she said.  “I figured you’d want to help with that.”

Clint’s entire body stilled.  “Bobbi?” he echoed.

Maria held up a hand before Clint could ask any of the other questions bubbling up in his throat.  “It’ll probably be easier if I start at the beginning, so have a seat.”

Kicking out a chair, Clint slipped off his bowcase and quiver and thumped down in the seat.  He folded his arms in front of his chest as Phil took up his post on Clint’s right, just like always.  Maria sat down at the head of the conference table, placing the SHIELD-tab on the surface in front of her.

“So how bad is it?” Clint asked.

“Not as bad as you’re thinking,” Maria said.  Sighing, she tapped the screen of her SHIELD-tab.  “The basics are this:  three months ago I was running an operation in Istanbul that turned up a lead on the Winter Soldier.  It wasn’t part of our main objective, so I passed the intel on.  That resulted in Bobbi being sent undercover to infiltrate a group of Russian mercenaries that may have links to the group controlling the Winter Soldier.  Or so we thought.”

“What do you mean, so you thought?” Clint demanded.

Opening her mouth, Maria glanced at Phil.  Clint had very rarely seen her at a loss for words, and an icy shiver ran down his back.  Oh, this was _not_ good.

“It’s… complicated,” Maria said.

Clint took a slow, deep breath and scrubbed a hand down his face.  “Okay, so what do I need to know?” he asked, focusing back on the rescue mission.  “You can presumably explain what the Winter Soldier has to do with Russian mercs and why Nat and Cap are suddenly in a secret briefing with Fury later.”

Maria nodded sharply.  “Coulson can fill you in if it becomes critical to the mission,” she said.  “As for the rest of it -- the mercenaries were overseeing part of a weapons smuggling operation.  Agent Morse was using the deal with the smugglers as an opportunity to find out who was funding the mercenary group.  Six days ago, we received a regular check in from Jasper -- who’s been acting as Bobbi’s handler on the ground on Bogotá -- relaying Bobbi’s progress on the mission.”

Breathing out, Maria deliberately relaxed her shoulders.  “But then Jasper missed the next two check-ins.  Two hours ago, we received a transmission over the emergency channel assigned to Jasper.  And the only thing in the message were those coordinates.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Clint said, closing his eyes.

Phil’s warm fingers tightened around his, offering reassurance, and Clint’s squeezed back gratefully.  When he glanced up, Maria was watching him, but she didn’t ask him if he was okay.  “The coordinates are in a small area of jungle near Caquetá that’s controlled by a local cartel, but that’s all we’ve been able to confirm,” she said.

“We’re going in mostly blind,” Phil said.  “No visuals and very little intel.”

“I take offense at that,” Clint said, because he _was_ Hawkeye.

Phil arched an eyebrow, but his tone was as level as ever.  “It’s just you and me,” he said.

Clint nodded, adrenaline flooding his system and making his fingers itch.  “When do we leave?” he asked.

“As soon as you’re geared up,” Maria said.  “You can sleep on the ‘jet.”

<*>

Phil sighed.  He really wanted to let himself slump against his locker, but he didn’t have time to indulge in such dramatics.  Of course, he’d also had _plans_ , but they weren’t working out so well.  Just like last month, when the call had come in for Clint to assemble and deal with radioactive, mutant platypuses -- platypodes? -- rampaging through Sydney.  Or two weeks ago, when Phil’s phone had rung at three in the morning for an 084.  Phil’d had barely enough time to kiss Clint hello as he came in off a mission of his own as Phil was heading out.

Life as a SHIELD agent was never easy and frequently difficult, but the last few months had Phil tearing out what was left of his hair.  Even for SHIELD, it was bordering on ridiculous, and that didn’t even include the Avenger shenanigans that Clint was now regularly involved in.  All Phil had wanted was to spend time with his boyfriend when they were both in the _same hemisphere_.  Maybe he should have been careful what he wished for, because this was not what he’d meant at all.

Dammit.  Phil was _never_ going to get a chance to propose.

(Not that proposing was the priority right now.  Not when they had certain doom to thwart.   _Again_.)

In deference to the jungle they were heading into, both he and Clint wore SHIELD’s version of jungle BDUs.  Basically, boots, cargo pants, a shirt under a tac vest, and as many weapons as they could carry.  Even after all his years at SHIELD, it reminded Phil of being in the Rangers, at least if he ignored the bow and quiver slung over Clint’s shoulder.  And the fact that Clint was wearing a t-shirt that looked about a size too small, which _had_ to be deliberate.  It showed off his biceps far too well to be anything else.

Phil turned, just in time to see Clint suck in a deep breath and close his own locker.  It shouldn’t have been strange, but Phil had seen the glimmer of Clint’s lucky arrowhead _inside_ his locker, and that _was_ strange.  Clint usually joked about his old superstitions from his circus days, but Phil had been a soldier and there was comfort in ritual.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Huh?” Clint said, turning.  “Yeah, I’m fine.  Why?”

Frowning, Phil didn’t believe Clint for a second.  Not with the tension in his shoulders and the way his hands were curling into fists.  “You sure?” Phil said, his own hands twitching with the urge to pull Clint into another hug.

Clint glanced back at his locker and huffed.  “When exactly did we get to know each other so well that you start worrying because I’m leaving my lucky arrowhead behind?”

Phil shrugged.  “About ten years and a hundred explosions ago,” he replied.

“It’s kinda stupid,” Clint said, glancing away.  “It’s just that since Loki and all that ‘magical’ shit, it’s hard to believe in luck in the same way.”  Before Phil could say anything, he looked up again, and his blue-green eyes were clear of the demons that had haunted them for so long.  “Lucky charms, I mean.  I still believe in the luck of a well-placed arrow.”

Phil smiled as his stomach unclenched.  “I believe in the luck of one of your arrows, too,” he said.

Clint rolled his eyes.  “I’m good.  Really,” he said.  “I mean, if you ignore the way I’m getting close to wanting to murder someone for a little downtime.”

Phil nodded and walked over to press against Clint’s side, just in case.  And who said the reassurance was only for Clint?

“You and me both,” he muttered.

“I’m not worried about the mission, though,” Clint added, forcing a levity into his voice that he clearly didn’t feel.  “I’m just mad about Bobbi and Jasper interrupting our potential vacation time.”

Phil snorted.  “Of course you’re not worried.  We’re two thirds of Strike Team Delta. Swooping in to save the day is what we do.”

Clint smirked.  “Yeah,” he replied.  “I guess it is.”

He fell back into silence as they rode the elevator up to the flight deck, but the tension didn’t immediately reappear across his shoulders.  At least that was something.  “Hey, Phil?” Clint said quietly, right before the elevator doors opened.  “Think we can get the pilot to divert past Bora Bora on the way home?”

Clint had injected his usual amount of snark into the words, but there was something exhausted in his eyes that almost broke Phil’s heart.  He bit back a hysterical laugh.  “Sure, why not?” he said, following Clint out onto the deck.

The cold wind snapped at his skin, mixing with the roar of the ‘jet’s engines and the bustle of the flight crew.  As Phil shivered, Clint’s plan to escape to a tropical island began looking more and more appealing.  Besides, islands were romantic.  Phil could work with that.

Clint probably wouldn’t object to some minor kidnapping, right?

Pausing beside where Clint was waiting at the base of the ‘jet’s ramp, Phil glanced up.  Nick Fury, in all his black leather trench-coated glory, grinned back and sauntered down the ramp.  “Looking good, Cheese,” he called out over the wind and engines.

Phil replied with a gesture he’d given Nick often, back when they’d both been Rangers.  Nick laughed.

“Come to see us off?” Phil said, frowning.

“Hey, be grateful I’m not hiding tracking devices on your person like _some_ asshole I know,” Nick shot back, narrowing his eye.

Phil rolled his eyes.  That had only been… okay, so maybe that had been one of Phil’s bad habits in the Rangers, but it was in direct response to Nick _running off without him_.  So Nick deserved it.  He glared at Nick, but as he opened his mouth, Clint cut him off.

“He was finishing his mysterious briefing with Cap,” Clint said.

Phil raised both eyebrows.  Quinjets weren’t the best places to attempt conversation -- Phil could list several failed en-route mission briefings as proof -- but he didn’t need Clint’s eyes to spot the stiff tension in Nick’s shoulders.  Or how the lines around his eye were deeper than usual.  Most people wouldn’t be able to read Nick like Phil could, but he and Nick had a complicated -- and long -- friendship that most people didn’t even pretend to understand, either.  Phil had lost count of the varied rumours about how he and Nick had met, but that wasn’t the point.  The point was that his and Nick’s relationship went deeper than friendship.  They were brothers, the kind of family you made for yourself, a person you’d do anything for, no questions asked.

Which was why when Nick had brought up Captain Rogers’ quest to save the Winter Soldier -- and incidentally, his childhood friend James Buchanan Barnes -- from the forces of evil, Phil had replied with, “Okay, how can I help?” instead of running screaming in the other direction.

Nick’s grin was a quick flash of white.  “Can’t fool you, can I, Hawk?” he said.

Phil hoped that didn’t mean bad news.  The lead on the Winter Soldier in Bogotá had been solid enough to involve Captain Rogers and Natasha -- and no doubt Sam Wilson, too -- but that didn’t stop Phil worrying.

Clint shrugged.  Phil rolled his eyes again and huffed.

“Get your ass on the ‘jet, Phil,” Nick interrupted before Phil could ask any questions.  “You’re keeping Cap waiting.”

Wait, _Captain Rogers_ was on the ‘jet?

Phil obviously didn’t catch whatever emotions flashed across his face in time, because Nick sniggered.  Actually _sniggered_.  Phil glared.

“Yeah, yeah,” Nick said, waving a hand through the air.  “You can kill me with your brain later, Cheese.  This was _practical_.”  He shrugged.  “You’re heading to the jungles of Colombia, Cap’s heading to Bogotá.  What was I going to do?  Send you on _separate_ ‘jets?”

“I hate you,” Phil said as Clint cackled loudly, eyes dancing.

Phil was a _professional_ , dammit, so he marched up the ‘jet’s ramp, face as deadpan as he could make it and shoulders straight.  Just like Nick had said, Captain Rogers was waiting on the ‘jet, but for once he wasn’t dressed in his uniform.  Instead, he wore jeans and a loose blue shirt over a white undershirt, a pair of aviator sunglasses hanging from the collar.  Natasha Romanoff sat on his left, also dressed in casual clothes, and Sam Wilson -- his eyebrows raised high -- sat on Rogers’ right.

“Captain,” Phil said with a nod.

“Okay, wait, I thought this was one of those surveillance, fact-finding type scenarios?” Wilson said.

“For you, it is,” Phil agreed.  “Hawkeye and I have another mission.”

Wilson frowned, clearly not liking Phil’s answer, but he was interrupted before he could say anything else.  “All right, now that all our wannabe superheroes are on board,” the voice of their pilot -- oh, and it _had_ to be Melinda May, didn’t it? -- crackled over the ‘jet’s internal comms.  “Strap yourselves in.  We’re wheels up in thirty.”

Clint grinned sharply.  “Show time,” he said.

<*>

 


	2. Chapter 2

Clint managed to catnap for the three hours it took to get to Colombia.  He only blinked back to consciousness when Phil shook him awake.  Sleeping on a quinjet wasn’t exactly easy, but Clint had slept in worse places over the years.  The constant vibration from the engines was kind of hard to ignore, at least without practice.  Even so, he was kind of sad to have missed Phil’s quietly contained squeeing at being around his childhood hero.  He doubted anyone but Natasha had caught it, because Phil was attempting to be professional, but that shit was never _not_ hilarious.

Rubbing a hand over his face as he sat up, Clint groaned softly as his cramped muscles protested the movement and aches flared over his entire body.  He stretched as he  checked his watch.  It was still only early afternoon, local time, which gave them at least five hours to get to the mysterious coordinates before sunset.  Which had better result in Jasper and/or Bobbi waiting for them, and not _aliens_ or something.

(Hey, Clint had actually fought aliens now.   _More than once_.  It could happen.)

Carefully, Clint began triple-checking his gear.  The routine was familiar and calming, a ritual he and Phil shared.  He had knives, spare clips, a radio and a medkit in his pack, the GPS loaded with the latest maps and satellite photos of the terrain.  Under Phil’s watchful eye, he slipped on his parachute.

“We’re almost at the jump coordinates,” Phil called out over the engines.

Sam Wilson, who’d been almost napping against Cap’s shoulder -- which wasn’t as comfortable as it looked, even if Cap was really warm to snuggle up to -- jerked up.  “Jump coordinates?” he said, looking as if he wanted to reach for his wings.  “Who’s jumping?”

“Clint and Phil,” Natasha told him.

Clint nodded.  “Yeah.  This is the part where we jump out of a perfectly good airplane.   _Again_ ,” he said, because if he wasn’t being a sarcastic asshole, then he just wasn’t Hawkeye.

“What do you mean ‘jump’?” Phil said, coming up to stand beside him.  “I’m pretty sure last time you _fell_.”

Clint glared.  “No, I didn’t.”

Steve watched Phil with a small frown creasing his forehead.  “You fellas do this a lot?” he asked.

“More than I’d like,” Phil replied dryly.

They did a final check of each other’s gear, and Clint felt the familiar prickle of adrenaline flood through him.  It wouldn’t be a SHIELD mission without numerous threats of danger.  Clint really didn’t enjoy jumping out of and off of things nearly as much as everyone thought he did.  It was just that, often, jumping was the only option left.

“This include the guy I’ve never seen out of a suit until today?” Wilson said, eyeing Phil skeptically, and okay.  Clint could kind of get that.  Phil had a certain reputation around SHIELD, but Phil had also been part of Strike Team Delta for _years_ , and he hadn’t done that sitting behind a desk.

“I’m sure Agent Coulson is perfectly competent,” Steve said mildly, and Clint couldn’t quite tell if Steve was being serious or stirring shit.  Hell, it was probably both.

“Yeah, well, Phil was a Ranger,” Clint said.

Steve’s eyes widened, and he glanced over to study Phil.  Clint nodded to himself, because _damn straight_.  His boyfriend was a total badass.

“At least he actually wears a parachute when he jumps out of planes,” Natasha said pointedly.

“Funny,” Steve shot back at her.

“All right, smartasses, can it,” Sharon Carter called out, climbing out of the co-pilot’s seat.  She nodded to Phil and Clint as she walked past them, hitting the button that lowered the ‘jet’s back door, and raised her voice above the sudden sound of rushing wind.  “You know the drill.  Commander Hill will be monitoring your progress from the Helicarrier.  So, don’t get shot and good luck figuring out whatever’s going on.”

Clint flashed Sharon a thumbs up, sucking in a deep breath.  His fingers itched to re-check his gear _again_ , but that was just nerves.  Clint had jumped into far more dangerous situations with far less planning.  Besides, he had Phil watching his back.

Phil touched him on the arm.  “We’re up,” he shouted.

Rolling his shoulders, Clint slipped on his goggles, and stepped up to the gaping ramp.  He was careful to keep a tight grip on the netting attached to the wall as the winds whipped around him.  Phil stepped down onto the ramp to his right, holding his left fist towards Clint.  Unable to stop his small smile, Clint bumped it with his own.

“See you on the ground,” Phil called out, running forward a few steps and leaping out of the ‘jet.

Taking another deep breath, Clint let it out slowly and followed.  Five steps and he was falling, the wind thumping into his body like a sledgehammer.  Icy fingers immediately tore at his clothes, and  Clint dropped fast, struggling to keep from tumbling ass over head as the wind pushed and pulled at him.  Beneath him, the jungle sped larger and closer with every thump of his heart.  There was nothing quite like the rush of freefall, and thankfully jumping during the day made it easier to keep track of landing zones.

(Clint had spent half of his career at SHIELD jumping out of ‘jets under the cover of darkness.  Which was somehow twice as exhilarating, twice as difficult, and three times as terrifying all at once.)

Below him, dark green fabric suddenly bloomed in his vision as Phil opened his ‘chute.  Clint yanked his a second later, grunting at the sharp jolt.  His heart was still thumping with the adrenaline rush of free-falling, but he shoved that away to concentrate on finding a clearer patch of jungle to actually land in.

“616, I’ve got a visual on two ‘chutes,” Sharon said over the comms, her voice crackling slightly.  “We’re turning and heading to the secondary landing zone.”

“Copy that, Agent 13,” Maria replied.

Clint grunted as he hit the trees, cursing under his breath as he missed the clearing Phil had managed to land in.  A second later, he heard the ominous ripping sound of his parachute catching on a branch, and he jerked to a stop about five feet off the ground.  Swearing again as the force of his abrupt halt made his harness ride up in dangerous -- and painful -- places, Clint took a moment to get his bearings.

When he did, Phil was standing off to his right, eyebrow arched in ridicule.

Fuck.  Clint was stuck in a damn tree _again_ , wasn’t he?

“Go on, say something,” Clint muttered, giving in to the inevitable.

Phil chuckled, but he didn’t say anything as he turned away to scan the jungle for anything out of place.  Maybe the teasing wouldn’t be too horrible.  Sighing inwardly, Clint flicked the quick-release buckle, freeing himself of his parachute, and dropped down to the ground with a soft thump.  It wasn’t ideal -- the parachute would stay stuck in that tree waiting for someone to find it -- but hopefully they wouldn’t be here long enough for it to matter.

“616, this is Delta,” Phil said, radioing in as planned.  “We’re both on the ground.   _Finally_.”

Scowling, Clint flipped Phil the bird, but didn’t say anything.  In his ear, the comm crackled, but there was no response from SHIELD HQ or Maria.  He pulled off his goggles, rearranging his gear so that his quiver was on his back and his bow was in easy reach.  Then, drawing his gun from the holster on his thigh, he moved into position, crouching by Phil’s shoulder to watch his blindspot.

“616, do you copy?” Phil tried again, but unless Clint’s comm had shorted out again, all they got in reply was dead air.  Phil glanced over to Clint.  “Did you get anything?”

Clint shook his head.  “No,” he replied.  “Someone must be jamming radio frequencies.”

Phil huffed.  “ _Of course_ they are,” he muttered.

Sighing, Clint scanned the jungle, but they were still about fifteen miles from the rendezvous coordinates.  All Clint could really see were trees and the odd bright flash of flowers.  It was already hot and sticky, and like every other jungle Clint had ever ‘visited’, the dominant green seemed to be fighting irritating bugs as the most memorable feature of the landscape.  Sunlight filtered down through the trees, and the air was filled with the scents of sweet flowers and rotting vegetation.  Thankfully, there was just enough of a breeze to stop things from being suffocating, but Clint still wasn’t looking forward to their long hike.  It might have been nice if Clint were sitting on a beach, or by a pool, but mud and insects got really annoying _fast_.

“Looks like we’re on our own,” Phil said.

Clint nodded.  “I guess it’s good I packed my exploding arrowheads then,” he joked, but it didn’t really cover the sudden churning in his gut.

Phil flashed him a sharp grin.  “Well, let’s go find you something to explode then,” he said, moving off.  “Come on.”

<*>

Phil grimaced at the truly _disgusting_ way his boots squished as he made his way higher up the slippery riverbank.  Crossing rivers without a bridge _sucked_ .  He was covered in a layer of grime, because the river had been filled with mud and shit and fuck knew what else, and his clothes were soaked through.  If they hadn’t been on a time limit, there would have been _no way_ Phil would have waded through it.

And okay, his grumpiness wasn’t a very mature response.  It wasn’t exactly Colombia’s fault, but right now, every aspect of this mission was highlighting everything that was wrong in Phil’s life.  Namely, that he was tired, pissed as hell and _still_ had _no idea_ how he was going to go about proposing to the love of his life.  Waiting until they both weren’t on a mission wasn’t working out for him so far.

“You know, Phil, I can hear your silent grumbling from here,” Clint said from where he was wringing out his clothes as best as he could.

Phil blew out a sigh.  “When this is all over, I’m taking a fucking vacation,” he muttered.  “Somewhere with a beach and the biggest ice cream sundaes it’s possible to construct.”

Clint snorted.  His blond hair was streaked with mud, and he’d stripped off his tac vest and t-shirt, leaving the skin of his bare chest golden in the sunlight.  Phil almost swallowed his tongue, the sight going a long way to help with his current bad mood.  “I knew you’d come around to my idea of Bora Bora,” Clint said.  “That is presuming you’re taking me with you on this hypothetical vacation?”

Phil was momentarily distracted by the thought of Clint and him on a deserted beach.  Preferably with Clint wearing as few clothes as possible.  “I could be convinced to take you with me,” he said.

(Of course, tropical island beach vacations would probably be good places to propose?  They seemed to do a lot of that on TV.  Phil could swing it, right?)

“I can be very convincing,” Clint agreed with a smirk, his eyes warm as as he glanced at Phil.

An answering warmth sparked low in Phil’s stomach, even as his heart thumped.  Seriously, how had he been lucky enough to not only have Clint crash into his life, but actually decide Phil was worth dating?  For _two years_ of SHIELD craziness and sleep deprivation, even.   _Fuck_ , he really needed to put a ring on that.

Phil cleared his throat.  “Mission first, convincing later,” he said.

Clint’s grin widened as he returned to scanning the jungle around them.  Sadly, he also pulled his t-shirt and tac vest back on, and Phil had to swallow down his disappointment.   _Focus, Phil_.  He could get his boyfriend naked later.  Instead, he concentrated on making sure the mud hadn’t compromised his gear, just as the comm crackled in his ear.

“Delta, this is 616,” Maria said.  “Do you copy?”

“616, this is Delta,” Phil said.  “We copy, but the signal isn’t clear.”

“Affirmative,” Maria said.  “Clear comms are going to be hard.  We can track your signal, but it’s pretty weak.”  She huffed, clearly annoyed by the situation.  “You’re about two clicks from the coordinates, on a good bearing.  Check in when you can, and we’ll keep tracking you from here.”

“Copy that,” Phil replied.

“616 out,” Maria said.

Clint glanced over at him, just a flick of his eyes, and huffed.  “Come on,” he said.  “We’ve still got jungle to hack through, and it’s not going anywhere.”

“Yeah,” Phil agreed.  “Right behind you.”

<*>

“Okay,” Phil said, pulling out the GPS to check their position.  “This is it.  The coordinates should be just ahead.”

Clint stopped with relief, sweat sliding in annoying trickles down his back, sticking his t-shirt to his skin.  Pulling out his water bottle, he swallowed several mouthfuls of blissfully sweet water and looked around.  There was nothing particularly different here than the last several miles of jungle, but Clint supposed you didn’t pick a clandestine meeting place for its distinctive landmarks.  If a clandestine meeting place was the intention, anyway.

“I don’t suppose there’s any sign of Jasper?” he asked.

An explanation of why they were here would be nice.  The tension humming beneath Phil’s calm facade suggested Phil wouldn’t mind an explanation, either.  Preferably without any accompanying bullets or explosions, but since when had they ever been that lucky?

Movement caught the corner of Clint’s gaze, and acting on instinct, he spun and brought up his gun.  Beside him, Phil tensed, his hands straying to his own guns until he spotted what Clint had seen.  “Jasper,” Clint told him in a low voice.  “He’s alone.”

Phil nodded, and Clint holstered his gun on his thigh again.  He nodded at Phil’s concerned look, trying to shake off his sudden tension.  He needed to focus and calm the fuck down.

When they both walked forward, not bothering to hide their presence, Jasper froze.  His hand reached for the small of his back where he no doubt had a weapon hidden.  Despite the jungle, Jasper still wore the stained clothes of his cover identity -- khakis and a loose white shirt over a white undershirt.  Even if he was slightly better armed that his clothes suggested.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Jasper muttered.  “I was really hoping my message got through.  Although, I was also hoping to see you about six hours ago.  What took you so long?”

Clint raised both eyebrows.  “I’m thinking it was probably the miles of jungle?” he said.  “And the mud.  The mud was gross.”

Phil rolled his eyes.  “Why are we here, Jasper?” he asked quietly.  “What’s going on?  Maria didn’t exactly send us in with a comprehensive briefing.”

Jasper sighed loudly.  “I have an ulcer, that’s what I have,” he said.  “And don’t let Maria hear you talking smack about her briefings.  She’ll kill you and then I won’t have anyone to talk to about Nick and his stubborn refusal to let me eat cheesecake.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Clint said before Jasper could share any more details about his relationship with Fury.  Something things, Clint _really_ didn’t need to know.  He shot Phil a look.  “Do we need to extract Bobbi?”

Blinking, Jasper shook his head.  “No, she’s fine,” he said.  “At least, she was the last time I saw her.  The mercs still believe she’s who she’s pretending to be.”

Phil frowned.  “So why did you call in for backup?”

“Shit, I need a cigarette,” Jasper muttered.  “Okay, so according to the few sources I managed to track down, there’s a criminal cartel that operates out of this section of the jungle.  They mostly smuggle in weapons and other black market goods, but occasionally they run a line in kidnapping.  The cartel and the mercenaries have some sort of deal and about two days ago, they made the trip out here with Bobbi.  Except, when I tried to call that out to SHIELD, I couldn’t.  There’s some sort of jamming field surrounding this place.”

“Yeah,” Phil said.  “We’re having that problem, too.”

Jasper let out a sigh.  “That’s not all,” he said.  “Rumlow’s here.”

“Rumlow?” Clint growled.  “As in the rat bastard who betrayed SHIELD because he was secretly a neo-Nazi psychopath?”

“That’s the one,” Jasper agreed mildly.  “Although, I think he’s calling himself Crossbones now.”

“What the fuck?” Clint said.

Anger blinded him, blistering under his skin, just like it had when the betrayal was fresh.  Clint’d had enough of assholes betraying him before he turned sixteen.  Finding out that people he’d bled on and run missions beside had secretly been homophobic white supremacist bastards had almost been too much.  About a year after Loki and the Battle of New York, a group of agents had attempted to topple SHIELD.  Then they’d defected to join the remnants of Hydra that had persisted since World War II.  Thankfully, they hadn’t done much damage or compromised much intel, but that didn’t mean much when they’d tried to _murder him_.

“Seriously, Phil.  What the _fuck_?” Clint said.

“Phil?” Jasper echoed.  “Well, isn’t this domestic.”

Clint scowled.  “Shut up, Jas.  I haven’t seen my boyfriend outside of SHIELD or missions -- where I have to be a goddamn _professional_ \-- for more than five minutes in three months.  I can call him Phil if I want to,” he grumbled.  “Besides, don’t we have more important matters to worry about?”

“Yeah,” Jasper said, running a hand over his face.  “Forgive a guy trying to break the tension a little.”

Jasper’s words hung heavily in the air, and Clint tried to ignore the stab of fear twisting his stomach.  “The compound’s close, right?” he said.

“Yeah,” Jasper said, nodding.  “It’s not far.  We’ll get there before dark.”

“Good,” Clint said, a little viciously.  “Let’s go shoot Rumlow, then.”

When he glanced at Phil, Phil’s lips were pressed into a thin line and his jaw was clenched.  He looked like he very much wanted to say yes to Clint, but ‘the mission comes first’ was one of those rules that was etched into Phil’s bones.  Normally, Clint appreciated the rigid control that cut through Clint’s rash impulsiveness, but right now, he was finding that hard.

“Not yet,” Phil replied.  “Not until we figure out how Rumlow is connected to the Russian mercenaries.”

Clint scowled.  “Why?  What’s so important about these mercs?”

“Because these mercs are pretty much reading straight out of the old Soviet Department X playbook on training and tactics, and SHIELD wants to know _why_ ,” Phil said.

Freezing, Clint stared at Phil and let out a guttural curse.  “The _Red Room_?” he hissed.  “These fuckers have a connection to Red Room training?”

“Why do you think SHIELD is so worried?” Jasper asked.

“Wait,” Clint said, freezing again as another thought hit him.  “Has Rumlow made Bobbi?  Does he know she’s in there?”

Jasper grimaced.  “I don’t think so,” he said.  “I’m pretty sure she’s safe.  For now.”

But if Rumlow was in there, making deals with the Russian mercs, then it was only a matter of time before she _wasn’t_.  Clint bit back a groan.  Fuck.  It was probably just as well that Bobbi could kick everyone’s asses blindfolded.

“What else do we know?” Phil asked.  “What kinds of weapons are we looking at?  Numbers?  Other security?”

Jasper rubbed a hand over his head, which just smeared the grime covering his skin into new and interesting patterns.  “The cartel is run by a man named Sebastian Rojas,” he said.  “He’s a real piece of shit.  He used to be a cop -- and a brutal one -- before he was a cartel boss, and now he’s even worse.  Rumour has it that he’s got politicians and entire police units on the payroll.”

“Shit,” Clint said.

“That’s not even the half of it,” Jasper said with a grimace.  “His compound is like a fortress.  Heavily guarded and patrolled, serious weapons…  I know you two can do things the rest of us mere mortals can’t, usually with accompanying explosions and arrows, but I’m not sure we’re pulling this one off without an entire strike team.”

“We have to,” Clint said flatly, because as far as he was concerned, there was no other option.  “We _are_ the strike team, and we can't leave Bobbi in there with Rumlow.”

Phil glanced at him out of the corner of his eye and nodded once to Jasper.  “We need a better look at this compound,” he said.  “We need to see what we’re dealing with.”

Clint breathed out.  Okay.  He could deal with this.  “Find a perch, wait ‘til dark?” he said.

Phil shrugged.  “Then, once we find out what’s going on, we blow the shit out of everything that’s not Bobbi,” he said.

“That sounds like a fucking Delta plan,” Jasper said dryly.  He sighed.  “Well, what are we waiting for?  Let’s go save the world.”

<*>

 


	3. Chapter 3

Sneaking into the base was actually easier than Phil had expected, which just meant he spent most of the time waiting for the other combat boot to drop.  The fortress Jasper had promised them actually had a few large holes in the security, and Phil was half a mind to call that _deliberate_.  After all, how much easier is it to stop infiltration when you know where your enemies are going to be?

Hey, it was only paranoia if he was _wrong_.

The compound consisted of a large building surrounded by a few smaller shacks.  A secure fence patrolled by vigilant men in mismatched jungle camouflage and guns surrounded them.  Well, secure apart from the hole in the perimeter fence near the river.  A hole that should definitely have been repaired, or at least watched better.  Even so, Clint, Phil, and Jasper made it to the main building without tripping any alarms.

Jasper split off as soon as they were inside, hoping to find a way to make contact with Bobbi.  Their comms were dead inside the compound, even when they tried to talk to each other.  Phil had to repress a sigh, because _of course_ they were.  They did have one stroke of luck working for them, however.  A small upper floor ran around the walls of the main room, like a wooden catwalk, which gave them a pretty good vantage point.  Particularly when several cartel goons and two mercenaries walked in and sat down on some of the empty crates.

Huh.  Apparently, it was poker night.

With a short, sharp series of hand gestures, Clint signaled that he wanted to scout around, and Phil nodded once.  As Clint disappeared along the catwalk, Phil settled in to eavesdrop on the mercs.  Conversation slipped between Spanish and Russian, with the odd word in English.  Thankfully, Phil understood enough to catch the meaning.  And the creative use of profanities.  Aside from the location, the poker game seemed pretty normal, if crude.  Sadly, none of the mercs launched into a monologue of why they were there and what they were doing.  Or even mentioned Rumlow once.

Oh, well.  It had been worth a shot.

Suddenly sensing a presence behind him, Phil spun and drew his gun, even as an icy shudder ran down his spine.  Ever since the Helicarrier and Loki, Phil couldn’t stop the jolt of fear that made his heart try to escape his chest every time he felt someone behind him.  The reaction was mostly internal now, but Phil still had to suck in a breath to stop the panic clawing at his throat.

“Easy, Phil,” Clint whispered, dropping down beside him.

Clint’s eyes were sharp as they flicked over Phil from head to toe, but the line of his shoulders didn’t relax.  In the shadows, Clint looked more like the hardened mercenary Phil had first met than the grounded, competent Avenger he’d become.  An impression that wasn’t helped by the bitter smirk fixed on his face, even if it faded into a softer smile as he watched Phil.

Letting out a slow breath, Phil holstered his gun.   _Shit_.  He really needed better control over those reactions.

“So,” Clint said quietly, nodding towards the goons playing poker below them.  “Do you have any idea what’s going on around here?”

“Not a clue,” Phil told him.

“Yeah,” Clint said.  “Me neither.”

Phil frowned.  The longer they remained inside the compound, the higher their chance of discovery.  He and Clint couldn’t stay where they were, but Phil wasn’t sure where they should go, either.  It wasn’t like they had much of a plan past ‘sneak in and find out what’s going on’.

“Did you see any sign of Rumlow?” Phil asked.

Clint shook his head.  “Nope, but there’s a very shiny black SUV on the other side of the compound, so there’s a fifty percent chance he’s still around somewhere.”

“Only fifty percent?” Phil said, but his heart really wasn’t in it.  “What about Bobbi?”

“Didn’t see her, either,” Clint replied.

What the hell was going on?  Even if the Russian mercenaries had made a deal with the cartel, they shouldn’t have needed to come all the way out to a remote stretch of jungle to do it.  Let alone be comfortable enough here to play poker with each other.  And none of that explained how Rumlow was involved.  Phil had a bad feeling about this.

“Come on,” Phil whispered, leaning against Clint’s shoulder so he could speak directly into Clint’s ear.  “I want to find a computer.  Or some files.”

Clint’s gaze lingered on Phil’s face a beat longer than necessary before he nodded.  He gestured for Phil to go first, a small smirk curling the corner of his mouth, and Phil had to remind himself to focus.  Damn distracting archers.

They made it back down to the ground floor without incident, but Phil paused as they slipped into a nearby corridor.  Digging out one of the small explosive charges he’d brought with him, he stuck it to the wall behind the door and armed it.  At Clint’s raised eyebrows, Phil shrugged.  It never hurt to have a Plan B.  Or a Plan F.

It wasn’t like Plan A had been all that complicated: get in, find out what was going on and if Bobbi needed a rescue, and get out.  Simple.  Which of course was why the plan had fallen apart as soon as they’d gotten inside the compound.  Watching mercenaries play poker was _not_ helping them figure out what going on.

Their search didn’t turn up anything, either.  The first three rooms Phil checked weren’t exactly dusty, but there was a distinct air of disuse about them.  Aside from a few wooden crates and two battered chairs, the rooms had been empty.  In the third, there was an empty filing cabinet in the corner, with one of its drawers wedged open.  Some critter appeared to have made it a home, but Phil wasn’t getting any closer to check.  Particularly since it was also empty of any files or paperwork.

None of this made any sense.  Phil hadn’t expected the compound to be the Ritz, but if it _was_ the headquarters of a criminal cartel, there should have been, well, more _stuff_.  “Does anything about this seem weird to you?” Phil asked.

“Phil, _everything_ about this is weird,” Clint drawled quietly.  “Like, mutant-anaconda-in-the-basement weird.”

Phil’s lips quirked into a smile.  Now _that_ was an image.  The familiar sound of Clint’s sarcasm helped soothe a little of Phil’s frustration.  After so many missions together, he understood Clint’s rhythms better than his own sometimes.  “If we find one of those, you’re dealing with it,” Phil said.

“Ha ha,” Clint muttered.

Heading towards the door, Phil let his hand hover over the comforting weight of the gun holstered on his thigh.  The longer they stayed inside the compound, the tighter his nerves wound, his adrenaline spiking.  His training kept his heartbeat steady, as did the knowledge that Clint was right behind him, watching his back.

Phil peered out into the corridor, because his instincts were jangling for a reason.  Ahead of them, one of the cartel goons was having a smoke, messing with something on his phone.  Phil eyed the distance between himself and the man, because hiding probably wasn’t a viable option anymore.  Unfortunately, before Phil had taken more than three steps, a nearby door opened with a sharp screech of rusted metal.  Another of the goons appeared, calling out in Spanish.

Cursing under his breath, Phil grabbed for the knife on his belt.  His fingers closed around the hilt just as the second goon spotted him.  Phil threw the knife in a fluid movement, and the goon’s cry of alarm trailed off in a gurgle, but the damage was done.  The first goon whirled in surprise, but Clint’s arrow took him out before he could reach for his gun.

Well, their luck had to run out eventually.

“Time to leave,” Clint said.

Phil nodded.  “Sure, but we should find Jasper first.”

As if conjured by Phil’s words, a loud explosion rumbled through the corridor, distant enough that it was probably at the other end of the compound.  “Or we could just wait for Jasper to find us,” Phil added dryly.

Clint smirked.

They moved further into the compound, Clint in the lead, and Phil hoped that meant Clint had found a way out.  Even so often, they paused to leave more of the small explosives stuck to the walls and behind doors.  An alarm sounded about five minutes later, blaring loudly through the building.  That was when things _really_ got fun.  Bursts of gunfire echoed down the corridors, growing louder, and Phil tensed at a sudden, loud crash.  He drew his own gun, watching out of the corner of his eye as Clint drew back the string of his bow, his gaze narrowed with concentration.  Whoever was doing the shooting was coming this way -- fast.

When someone _did_ round the corner, Phil had to fight a grin.  “Jasper,” he greeted.

“Where’s Bobbi?” Clint said.

Jasper grinned.  “Making a whole lot of people’s days infinitely worse,” he said.

Phil glanced between Jasper and Clint.  “So what’s the plan?” he asked.

Jasper snorted, narrowing his eyes.  “Would I have come for you without one?”

Deciding it was probably best if he didn’t answer that, Phil shrugged.  Snorting again, Jasper cocked his head to the side, as if listening to something, and Clint grinned fiercely.  Seconds later, an explosion tore through the compound, shaking the walls and vibrating through the floor.  Phil bit back a curse, coughing as dust and grit rained down from the ceiling.

“There’s your way out, Phil,” Jasper said with a smirk.

“Thanks,” Phil replied dryly.

Bobbi stuck her head and shoulder around the corner, gun in one hand and eyebrow delicately raised.  “Hey, guys,” she said.  “Mind if I catch a ride with you?”

Phil assumed things had hit the point of imminent destruction.  “Sure, but at some point you’re also going to have to explain what’s going on,” he said.

“Deal,” Bobbi agreed.  “Come on.”

<*>

Getting out of the compound was surprisingly easy.  Which, naturally, was when everything went to _hell_.

The large hole Bobbi had blown in the compound’s east wall helped, since the cartel thugs were busy dealing with that chaos.  Clint could only assume Phil was waiting for the critical moment to add to that chaos by blowing the charges they’d laid around the compound themselves.  Phil was a stickler like that.  He and Phil moved together with the ease of familiarity, dealing with any goons they came across like fucking poetry in motion, but the constant need to stay alert and focused was giving way to exhaustion.  It was compounded by the lack of recent downtime, but that didn’t keep Clint or Phil down for long.  The only way things would be better would be if they could celebrate getting out of Colombia alive with a trip to Bora Bora.

(Clint hadn’t been kidding about that.  He deserved a few days in the sun, checking out Phil in a swimsuit, dammit.  Or even better, _out_ of one.)

“Okay,” Bobbi said, crouching down next to Clint.  He was sheltering behind the wall of the main building and a handy pile of those wooden crates.  “Which way are the exfil coordinates?”

Clint blinked.  “Jasper didn’t tell you that this wasn’t meant to be an extraction?”

Bobbi’s flat look was _not amused_.

“Hey!  Take your complaints up with your handler,” Clint grumbled.  “He didn’t exactly send any details, so Hill only sent us in to investigate.”

“So, you’ve got no car, either, huh?” Bobbi said.

Okay, when put like that, this wasn’t the best planned rescue mission ever.  In Clint’s defense, he hadn’t actually been sure this _would_ be a rescue mission, and anyway, plans were Phil’s department.

Before Clint could offer any more justifications, the door behind them slammed open.  Clint immediately nocked an arrow, but he didn’t need it.  Phil, who had been sneaking around the corner, covered the distance between himself and the cartel thug in three large steps.  He shoved the thug’s gun away from him, and pivoting sharply, wrenched the gun from the thug’s hand.  Phil swept the man’s legs out from under him in one smooth motion, sending the guard crashing down to one knee, and used the butt of the thug’s rifle to knock him out, sending him sprawling.

_Damn_ , Phil was hot when he got all badass.

“Let’s keep moving, shall we?” Phil said, and he wasn’t even out of breath.

“This way,” Jasper said, appearing ahead of them.

Phil nodded, and crouching low, made his way over to Jasper to have a whispered conversation.  If Clint’s eyes lingered on certain parts of Phil’s anatomy as he passed, who was to know?

“Ogle him later, Hawk,” Bobbi muttered in his ear.

Okay, so apparently, Bobbi would know.  Dammit.

“I can multitask,” Clint shot back in a low voice.

Following Jasper, they made it as far as the edge of the compound before the mercenaries found them and started shooting.  Clint skidded into the ruins of an old storage building, Bobbi on his heels, as bullets thudded above them into the half-collapsed brick walls.  Clint pressed his back against the crumbling wall and glanced around while he waited for a gap in the gunfire.

The corners of the building were still mostly intact, which would give them a little defensive cover to hunker down behind.  The ground surrounding them was bare, so sightlines were good.  Particularly since the cartel thugs had turned on all the floodlights as soon as the alarm had sounded.  The river cut through the edge of the compound behind them, deep and wide enough it wouldn’t be a good idea to swim it in the dark.  At least it wasn’t walled off, and the night would give them the advantage for escaping.  It was hardly the best place for a siege, but Clint had been in worse situations.

“Okay, Phil, now would be a great time for a plan,” he hissed, as each of them took position in one of the corners.

“I’m working on it,” Phil replied from the corner opposite Clint.

The gunfire finally fell silent, and Clint risked sticking his head above the remains of the wall.  If he’d had his rifle, he’d have taken a shot or three, too, but it was kind of awkward with his bow, at least without sliding more out of cover.  Clint was pretty sure if he did that, he was going to get shot for his trouble.

Just ahead of him, a large man was standing near the cover of the main compound building, assault rifle held loosely in his hand.  Two other men stood beside him, also holding serious looking guns.  The cartel goons had been little more than thugs in ill-fitting, military surplus uniforms, but these guys were definitely not.  Everything about them screamed experienced fighters.  Clint would bet they were used to tracking prey and making sure it never saw another sunrise.

So.  This probably wasn’t going to end well.

Clint tensed and tried to resist the urge to fade slowly back into the shadows.  It wasn’t as if the mercenaries had lost them.  The mercenary in the lead crouched down, his light eyes scanning the darkness.  “Our rabbits are close.  Let’s flush them out,” he said in Russian, just loud enough that he wasn’t trying to hide what he was saying.

“That’s Rostov,” Bobbi said in a low voice.  “He’s the leader of the mercenary group I was infiltrating.  Be careful, he…”

Clint didn’t hear whatever Rostov was, because he was busy watching Rostov’s two friends nod obediently and fan out.  Except, instead of doing it like a normal person, one of the mercs _moved,_ and holy shit he was fast.  Definitely not human fast, either.  More like _Captain America_ fast.

The merc crossed the space between Rostov and the storage building in less than a few seconds.  Thankfully, Clint had spent the last couple of months on the same team as Steve Rogers.  He’d gotten used to tracking things that moved fast enough to _blur_.  It didn’t stop his heart from hammering against his chest as he lined up his shot, though, or his brain from jibbering a bit in sheer terror.  The merc dropped three feet from Jasper, still twitching, and Clint shot him with another arrow just to be sure.

Jasper blinked and launched into a string of curses that would make a sailor proud.  “What the fuck was _that_?” he snapped.

“Ninja turtles,” Clint said flatly, because _seriously_?

Breathing out, Clint lined up another arrow because he hadn’t forgotten about Freaky Mercenary #2.  The second man went down with two precisely placed arrows two and a half feet from Clint’s right, just in time for Clint to catch the _look_ Phil shot him.

Clint scowled.  “What?” he said.  “I don’t fucking know, Phil.”

“They’re Winter Soldiers,” Bobbi said quietly.  “Or, well, attempts at Winter Soldiers, anyway.”

Clint wanted to turn to gape at her in horror, but keeping watch for any more of those speedy fuckers seemed like a better idea.  “ _What_ now?” he snapped.

“Rogers’ friend Barnes isn’t the only Winter Soldier,” Bobbi explained.  “He’s just the best.  Hydra got their hands on some old serum and training manuals from the Red Room about thirty years ago, and attempted to create their own kill squad.”

She trailed off, but Clint didn’t need her to finish to follow where she was going with that.  “And you think the mercs _are_ those Soldiers?”

Bobbi shook her head, and then shrugged.  “We thought they’d just been trained by one,” she said.  “But things weren’t adding up until a few days ago when I saw what Roskov and his lieutenants were _really_ capable of.”

“Fuck me,” Clint breathed.

“Uh, we’ve got other problems!” Jasper called out.

That was when Clint caught sight of the three boats speeding down the river towards them.  Boats bristling with armed and shouting cartel goons and mounted with spotlights.

Oh, _fuck_.

<*>

 


	4. Chapter 4

So far, things were not going well.

That was perhaps an understatement, but Phil wasn’t going to let himself descend into hysterics, no matter how FUBAR the situation was.  At least the serum-enhanced, Winter Soldier knockoffs weren’t attacking anymore.  Rostov had raged after Clint had taken out two of his lieutenants, and he now seemed to be determined to take Phil, Clint, Jasper and Bobbi out with gunfire and the odd grenade.

And the boats.  Because nothing said _fun_ like being shot at from multiple directions.

Gripping his rifle a little tighter, Phil peered over the cover of the crumbling wall and immediately ducked back down to avoid a hail of bullets.  Phil’s skin was gritty and covered in small cuts from all the chunks of bricks and concrete falling on him from the waves of gunfire.  They were effectively pinned down, and it was only a matter of time before someone on Phil’s team got shot.  Phil needed to come up with a plan, and _fast_.

“Hey, Phil!” Clint called out.

Phil braced his rifle against his shoulder and peered out over the wall again, ignoring Clint.  At least for now.  Phil might not have been a sniper by trade, or a marksman of Clint’s caliber, but he wasn’t a bad shot.  He’d even been a Ranger once upon a time.  Using a few vital seconds, Phil attempted to pick out the men giving orders.  He’d only have a few shots, and he wanted to make them good ones.  Slowing his breathing, Phil sighted his target and squeezed the trigger.  Shifting his aim as soon as the man went down, he took a second shot, trying to take out as many men as he could before they fired back.

“Phil!” Clint snapped, and something in his tone made Phil duck back down and look.  When Phil glanced over, eyebrows raised in question, Clint grinned sharply.  “Rangers know how to swim, right?”

No.   _No_.  Clint was not suggesting that kind of insanity, was he?

“Want to go get that boat?” Clint said.

Oh, he _was_.  And the worst part wasn’t even that Clint’s madcap plans usually had high odds of Phil getting shot, or that desperate times called for desperate measures.  The worst part was that Phil _didn’t have any better ideas_.

“Seriously?” he called back.

“Yeah, it’ll be fun!” Clint said with a manic grin.  “Bobbi’ll cover you!”

“Oh, what the hell,” Phil growled, setting down his rifle and beginning to strip out of his tac vest.  “Sure.  I’ll go get the damn boat.”  This had to rank in the Top Ten of Worst Ideas Ever, but it was still better than waiting to be shot.  “Jasper, take care of my gear.  I don’t want it left behind!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jasper shouted, busy taking out some of the cartel thugs that were trying to flank them.  “I’ll get your shit.”

“You realize this is either really brave or really stupid, right?” Bobbi called out as she changed position to cover Phil.

Whatever Clint shouted back was lost as a grenade exploded just outside the building.  With nothing else for it, Phil muttered a curse and started commando crawling towards the riverbank.  A patch of mangroves poked out of the mud, and Phil headed for them, hoping the leaves and branches would give him a little cover.  The river was shockingly cold, particularly after the humid heat, thick even in the night air.  When he dove down, everything was pitch black.  Drawing on all the training he could remember, Phil used the floodlights mounted on the boats and the splashes of their wakes as a guide.

Bullets hit the water around him, but even if they’d seen him, none of the thugs would be able to get a bead on him in the dark water.  Holding his breath, Phil circled back towards one of the speeding boats.  He couldn’t surface out in the open without giving away what he was doing.  Biding his time, Phil waited until the gunshots eased off.  He ignored his burning lungs and kicked upwards with a burst of strength, breaking the surface just as one of the boats slowed for a turn.

Reaching out, Phil grabbed the railing running around the edge of the boat, hand tightening so his wet glove didn’t slip as he was yanked forwards by the boat’s movement.  Then he carefully pulled himself out of the water enough to grab a few deep breaths of air and count the number of thugs in the boat.   _Locate the enemy_.  Phil surged out of the water and used his free arm to grab the arm of one of the men leaning over the side of the boat.  Using his body weight, Phil pulled the thug into the water and hooked his leg over the railing to haul himself into the boat.

_Take out the enemy_.  Since his presence wasn’t a secret anymore, Phil drew the gun still holstered on his thigh and took out a second thug.  Just ahead of him, one of Clint’s arrows took out the third, but the fourth came at Phil with a knife before Phil could shoot him.  Phil dove to the side to avoid the blade, and his wrist slammed painfully into a small metal box on the floor of the boat.  Phil cursed loudly as his gun went skidding out of his grip, drawing his own knife from his belt.

He blocked the goon’s second swing with his forearm, and grabbing the man’s wrist with his hand, Phil slammed his elbow towards the man’s throat.  The man twisted away to avoid it, and Phil went with the movement.  He slashed out with his knife, forcing the goon further back.  Bringing his arm up behind the man’s, Phil slammed the goon’s head into the boat’s railing hard enough to knock him out.  The fight was over in about thirty seconds.  Phil left the body where it slumped, heading inside the reinforced metal cockpit towards the boat’s controls.

The other boats had noticed the fight, and two bright floodlights lit Phil up as he shoved the throttle forward.  He grabbed the helm, sending the boat into a tight turn.  Or as tight a turn as the boat could manage, which wasn’t actually that great.  Phil growled under his breath because he wasn’t going to be able to outmaneuver the two inflatables trying to flank him in this boat.  Not even with the weight the two inflatables were carrying from the guns mounted in their bows.

Of course, before Phil could do more than cut the lights on his commandeered boat, his Plan B lit up the cartel’s compound like a burning fireball.  Literally.  Phil grinned.  He’d set the explosives on a backup timer, suspecting the jamming field would also stop any remote detonations.  In the resulting chaos, Phil moved in closer to the bank, just in time to see Clint lining up a shot with one of his arrows.  The resulting explosion utterly destroyed the closest inflatable.  Clint did always enjoy playing with arrows that went _bang_.

“Did someone call for an escape route?” Phil shouted.

A beat later, Clint’s second arrow took out the remaining inflatable.  The shock wave was close enough to rock Phil on his feet, but he didn’t let it stop him.

Bobbi and Jasper skidded down the bank, still firing at the cartel thugs that weren’t running to put out the fire raging through their compound.  A third explosive arrow had them scattering and a minute later, Clint was following Jasper and Bobbi by vaulting into the boat.  “That’s how Rangers do it, huh?” Clint said, mud smeared across his cheek and his eyes bright with the thrill of still being alive.

“You’d better believe it,” Phil replied, hitting the throttle again, and Clint laughed, loud and sharp.

<*>

As soon as they found an only _half_ -decomposed dock, they abandoned the boat.  The dock had clearly fallen into disuse, but it was better than continuing to navigate the river in the dark.  That had been testing Phil’s nerves if his tense shoulders and snapping had been clues.  Clint had wanted nothing more than to run a soothing hand down Phil’s back, or maybe crack an awful pun that would have Phil groaning as he fought not to smile, but it wasn’t the time.

At least they were finally outside the cartel’s jamming field. Phil had wanted to call in as soon as the jam cleared, but they’d decided that it might be a better idea to put a little more distance between them and the mercenaries first.  So as usual, they were on their own and making shit up as they went.

Which was about a normal Thursday for Strike Team Delta, really.

They managed to find a dirt road, and for lack of any better options, started following it northwest.  It wasn’t quite as hard as hiking through the jungle, but after the adrenaline-filled gunfight and dashing escape, exhaustion was weighing heavily on Clint.  They needed a place to crash for a few hours and warm up some of the tasteless MREs Phil had packed.  Thankfully, dawn was finally lighting the sky.  The light would make it easier for any remaining Russian mercs to track them, but it also made it easier to follow the road, so Clint was going to take it.

“Is it wrong to be missing the feeling of hacking my way through the jungle with a machete?” Clint asked when the silence started to get to him.

Phil gave him a sidelong _look_.  “I thought trees getting in your way was _annoying_ ,” he replied, and okay, Clint might have grumbled about that earlier.

“Right, well, I hate to rain on your parade and shit,” Jasper interrupted before Clint could do more than open his mouth to retaliate.

“Do you?  Really?” Phil shot back, and Jasper sent him a dark glare.

“Okay, no.  I don’t,” Jasper said.  “Just listen, Coulson.  Save the sass for your boyfriend.”

Raising both his eyebrows, Phil gave Jasper a magnanimous wave as if to say, “Very well.  Continue if you must.”  Fuck, Clint loved that asshole.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Jasper growled.  “We have another problem that isn’t about how we’re making our own way out of this stinking jungle.”

Clint groaned because _of fucking course_.  “What kind of problem?” he asked.

“Rumlow’s headed to Cartagena,” Bobbi said.  “And that’s where it gets ugly.”  She swallowed.  “The Winter Soldier is in Cartagena.  I overheard two of the other mercenaries talking to Rostov -- whatever brainwashing they gave the Winter Soldier is slipping.  He’s started to remember things, and he’s apparently gone rogue to retrace his footsteps.”

That _could not_ be good.  “Okay, so I haven’t been read into the whole super-secret Winter Soldier file, but I’m pretty sure we need to warn Rogers about this,” Clint said.

Phil nodded.  “We do,” he agreed.  He glanced at Clint again.  “I’ll read you in later.  I promise.”

Clint nodded back.  If he needed to know something, he trusted Phil to tell him.  He didn’t need to be a genius to tell that this mission had suddenly become part of something a _lot_ bigger.  “This explanation is going to include why Rogers, Nat and Wilson were headed for Bogotá, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Phil said.  He turned to Bobbi.  “We need to get you back to Maria for debrief.”

“What about Rumlow?” Bobbi said.

“Hopefully warning Rogers and his team will be enough,” Phil told her.  “Now, shall we call this in?”

They found a spot hidden from the road by thick vegetation, just in case, and Phil made the call.  “SHIELD 616, this is Strike Team Delta.  Do you copy?”

The comm crackled in Clint’s ear before Maria’s voice came through.  “Strike Team Delta, this is SHIELD 616.  We copy.  What’s your status?”

“I think we’re about twenty clicks from Florencia,” Phil said.  “We have Agents 22 and Mockingbird with us and are requesting extraction.”

“Of course you do,” Maria said dryly.  “I suppose there’s a reason why you extracted my asset?”

Phil snorted.  “You have no idea,” he drawled.

“Fine, be a cryptic asshole like usual,” Maria replied, like it wasn’t comms protocol not to share details unless absolutely necessary.  “I have Agent 13 and the Cavalry in the area.  Send me your coordinates, and I’ll arrange for extraction.”

“Copy that, 616,” Phil said, rattling off their coordinates from his GPS.  “We’ll explain when we see you.”

Maria huffed.  “Someone had better,” she muttered.  “Copy that, Strike Team Delta.”  In the background, they could hear Maria having a brief conversation with someone else.  “Extraction coordinates are two clicks to your south,” she added, repeating a second set of coordinates.  “But we’ve got a problem.  I need you and Hawkeye to stick around as potential backup.  You’re closer to Cartagena than any of the other teams I have on stand by, and I might need you there.  Radio back for check-in in twelve hours, unless you hear from me sooner.”

Phil shared a glance with Clint and bit back a sigh.  “Copy that, 616,” he said.

“Good,” Maria replied.  “616 out.”

Clint huffed.  “So we’re headed for Cartagena, huh?” he said.  “This isn’t going to end up involving the hunt for a gemstone swallowing crocodile, is it?”

Phil blinked.  “You’ve watched _Romancing the Stone_ way too many times,” he said.

“Phil, there is _no such thing_ ,” Clint replied, clapping his free hand dramatically to his chest.

“Uh, yeah, there really _is_ , Barton,” Bobbi grumbled.

Phil arched an eyebrow.  “Please tell me this does not make me the romance novelist in this scenario?” he said dryly.

Clint glanced over at him, deliberately flicking his gaze downwards and then back up.  “Oh, come on, Phil.  You can’t tell me you don’t like happy endings,” he said.

His lips twitching, Phil narrowed his eyes.  “Focus, Hawkeye.”

“Ugh, before you two get any more nauseating, do you know _how_ you’re going to get to Cartagena?” Jasper asked.

Phil pulled out his GPS.  “There’s an old SHIELD safehouse not far from here,” he said.  “With a little luck, it’ll still have some sort of vehicle hidden nearby.”

Jasper nodded.  “Make sure you get some actual sleep, too, okay?”

“I’ll make sure he does,” Clint promised, because he’d been doing that since _before_ he and Phil had started dating.

“Thanks, Hawk,” Jasper said.  “I’m going to hold you to that.”

<*>

 


	5. Chapter 5

By the time he and Clint made it to the safehouse, Phil’s remaining adrenaline had worn off.  He was exhausted, and he wanted a shower more than anything else.  If he was lucky, the water pressure wouldn’t be shit and he’d actually manage to get clean and have a nap before he had to check in with Maria again.  So far their luck had held enough to find a small garage beside the safehouse, containing an old but functional jeep.  It even had a full tank of gas, which they were going to need.  It was a minimum of twenty-six hours by road to Cartagena.

Of course, as soon as they’d ensured the safehouse was clear, Clint grabbed Phil’s wrist and pulled him in.  Phil didn’t have a chance to say anything before Clint was pushing him up against the closest wall.  His hand found Clint’s shoulder without thought, and he shivered at the warm press of Clint’s body along his front.  “Clint,” he whispered, but Clint cut him off by leaning forward and pressing his lips to Phil’s in a hard kiss.

Phil should protest, he should _most definitely_ protest, but fuck, he hadn’t kissed Clint like this in _so long_.  With a low groan, he surged forwards, his free hand coming up to twist in Clint’s still damp t-shirt.  Clint gasped and opened his mouth under Phil’s, and Phil gave into the heat of it, even as he struggled to remember why it was a bad idea.

“Clint,” Phil said, attempting to pull back as much as Clint’s sudden octopus impression would let him.  “You don’t want to do that.  I’ve swum in rivers full of shit _twice_ today.  It’s…”

Clint groaned, but he stepped back all the same, his hands sliding down to rest on Phil’s hips.  That, combined with the flush on Clint’s cheeks, made it very hard for Phil to resist leaning in again.  “You’re going to say it’s unhygienic, aren’t you?” Clint muttered.

“Well, it is,” Phil said helplessly.

Clint glanced down.  “Okay, so you may have a point,” he conceded.  He pulled his mud-covered and slightly damp t-shirt away from his chest, failing to keep the grimace off his face.  “Thanks for reminding me.”

Phil bit his lip to stop from smiling.  It wouldn’t do to encourage Clint.  Naturally, Clint chose that moment to step back and peel off his t-shirt, and _dammit_.  Clint wasn’t doing it on purpose -- _this_ time -- but there was only so much temptation Phil could take.  Especially now that his boyfriend was within grabbing distance and no one was shooting at them.

And now, of course, Clint had to go and strip half-naked _right in front of him_.

After his point about the shower, Phil was absolutely not going to slam Clint against a wall and kiss him stupid.  He was _not_.  He refused to give into temptation and run a hand down all those lean muscles under all that warm skin, either.  Or lose himself in the strength and heat of Clint Barton until he couldn’t think straight.

Nope.  Totally wasn’t going to do it.

Clint glanced over, his eyes darkening as he smirked.  Phil narrowed his own eyes in reply.  Oh, _fuck it_.  They could probably both fit in the shower.

“We _really_ need to shower,” he said.

Blinking, Clint frowned.  “Yeah, I heard you the first time,” he grumbled, but when he moved to step back, Phil rolled his eyes and grabbed Clint’s hand.

“Good,” Phil said, tugging him in the direction of the bathroom.

“Wait.”  Clint narrowed his eyes, as if trying to figure out Phil’s angle.  “Agent Coulson, are you implying that we should take a shower _together_?”

Unabashedly, Phil took a moment to admire all the muscle and skin on offer in front of him.  Then he glanced back up at Clint’s face and raised an eyebrow.  “Yes,” he said.

Clint blinked again.  “Phil.   _Phil_.  Have I ever told you how much I love how your brain works?”

An answering smile spread across Phil’s face, slow and hot.  “You might have mentioned that, yes,” he agreed.

Wordlessly, Clint groaned, but he did also crowd Phil back against the small bathroom sink, so Phil wasn’t going to complain.  “Don’t forget your boots,” Phil said when it looked like Clint was going to lean in and kiss him again, because he really had meant it about being unhygienic.

Clint muttered a curse.  “You are the _worst_ ,” he said.

Phil bent to unlace his own boots before stripping off his shirt and reaching for his belt buckle.  “And to think, I haven’t even made a Jack T. Colton joke yet,” he said.

“I _hate_ you,” Clint said, but the speed at which he shucked his pants told Phil he didn’t mean it.

Phil smirked and, finally naked, stepped into the shower.  The stall really hadn’t been designed to fit two grown men, but the water pressure wasn’t as dire as Phil had predicted.  He turned on the blissfully cool water, a relief after the thick humidity of the jungle, and washed away the mud and sweat.  He braced his hands and on the wall of the shower and hung his head, letting the water flow over him and ease his aching muscles.  Squinting when he realized there was a distinct lack of Clint in the shower, Phil glanced back over his shoulder.  “Are you coming?”

Clint wordlessly opened and shut his mouth before holding up a finger.  “No, shut up,” he said.  “I can’t with you being naked and making jokes, and for the love of arrows, _where is the damn soap_?”

Grinning, Phil reached out to yank Clint into the shower.  Clint blinked away the water falling into his face and opened his mouth to say something.  Except, then he closed it again, his whole face softening, probably because Phil was staring at him like a lovestruck fool.  Phil couldn’t help it.  The water clung to the darkened tips of Clint’s hair and eyelashes, running in rivulets down the golden skin of his chest.

Clint groaned.  “ _Fucker_ ,” he hissed.  “Stop being so stupidly seductive and pass me the damn soap.”

Phil chuckled, reaching for the soap he’d brought with him from his thankfully waterproof kit.  He passed it over, expecting Clint to scrub himself down quickly and then demand Phil do the same.  Instead, Clint’s warm, calloused, soapy hands slid down Phil’s back and then up to his shoulders.  Phil’s cuts and scrapes stung as Clint washed the dirt from his skin, and Phil relaxed into Clint’s loving care.

Together, it didn’t take long to scrub away the last of the mud and the grime.  Phil made sure to return the favour and wash Clint, mainly just as an excuse to get his hands on his boyfriend.  At least he did until Clint muttered a curse under his breath and snatched away the soap to shove it on a shelf somewhere.

“Come here,” Clint muttered, his voice low and gravelly.  “Oh my god, just come here.”

Clint’s strong arms reached out and Phil pressed closer until he lost himself in Clint’s burning blue eyes and warm breath against his lips.  “Shit, Clint.  I’ve really missed you,” he said softly.

“Me, too,” Clint groaned.  His eyes were a mixture of amused frustration and heat, but underneath that blue gaze, Clint’s eyes were filled with the same echoes of love that were thrumming through Phil.  Phil’s heart thumped painfully against his ribs as Clint pulled him in for a deep kiss.

Phil returned the kiss with equal fervor, sliding his tongue against Clint’s and swallowing down Clint’s groan.  Clint’s hands flexed on Phil’s wet skin, and Phil gave into temptation and buried his hands in Clint’s wet hair.  The tiles were slick under his feet, and he staggered, slamming into the wall as Clint plastered his body to Phil’s.  Clint’s cock was hardening against Phil's hip, and it was making it difficult to think, but Phil tried anyway.

“Clint,” he gasped, pulling back from the kiss.  He cupped Clint’s face between his hands, breathing hard.  “Maybe we should take this outside the shower so we don’t kill ourselves?”

Grunting, Clint blindly reached behind him and shut off the water.  “There.”

Before Phil could protest, Clint caught his mouth again and rolled his hips.  Phil arched towards him on a moan, seeking blessed friction against slick, wet skin.  Reaching down, Phil grabbed Clint’s ass even as he ground up with his hips.  Phil’s head was spinning and he could barely breathe, but Clint wasn’t much better off.  Somehow, they managed not to fall as they rutted desperately together, one of Clint’s hands braced on the wall beside Phil’s head.  Phil’s orgasm built low in his gut as Clint managed to get a hand between them, wrapping it around both their cocks.

Pulling back to pant against Clint’s lips, Phil caught Clint’s gaze.  He stared into those amazing blue eyes blown wide and lost himself, coming with a guttural shout.  Clint wasn’t far behind.  When Phil’s brain came back online, Clint had slumped against him, breath hot on Phil’s neck and their harsh panting echoing off the walls.

“I think we need another shower now,” Phil said inanely.  He could feel the hot mess painting his stomach, and he absolutely _hated_ it when come dried in his chest hair.

Clint chuckled, low and happy, as he pushed himself off Phil just enough to turn the shower back on.  “Yeah, yeah,” he said.  “At least we didn’t fall down and break a hip.”

“Barton,” Phil growled as much as he could in the afterglow.  “Are you calling me _old_?”

“No, I’m saying you grumble like an old man,” Clint replied.  He grinned at Phil, but exhaustion was starting to dull his eyes.

Phil swallowed down his retort, instead rinsing himself and Clint off as efficiently as he could.  The combined effects of mission adrenaline and a really good orgasm were catching up with him, too, and sleep sounded like an _amazing_ idea.  “Come on,” he said, shutting off the water again and stepping out the shower.  “Let’s get you into bed.”

“Mmm, bed,” Clint hummed.

He was pliant in Phil’s arms as Phil dried them off quickly, and still a little damp, they slid under the sheets of the safehouse’s small bed.  Phil had barely curled himself around Clint in a way he hadn’t been able to in _months_ before sleep pulled him under.

<*>

Sometime later that afternoon, Clint blinked back awake, Phil still curled around him.  The temperature and humidity had risen with the sun, but despite the the sweaty heat from where he was pressed against Phil, Clint didn’t want to move.  Phil was awake, too, because he had one of Clint’s hands curled between his, his thumb stroking along the inside of Clint’s wrist.  The room around them was surprisingly dim, only dappled sunlight filtering in through the shuttered windows.

Humming, Clint shifted so he could blink at Phil.  “Everything okay?” he asked quietly after a yawn.

“Yeah,” Phil replied, smiling faintly.  “Just thinking.”

Clint hummed again, inquisitively, his eyes sliding shut against his will as the heat and Phil’s thumb lulled him back into a doze.  “Does it involve good things, like you, me, and a beach?” he said.  “Because you should definitely be thinking about that.”

“Bora Bora,” Phil said, a thread of laughter in his voice.  “I remember.”

Of course, if Clint wanted his fantasy vacation with Phil, they had to finish the mission first.  And that would involve opening his eyes.  Dammit.

“There was coffee in the kitchen when you checked, right?” Phil said.

Forcing his eyes open, Clint squinted at him.  “Even if there isn’t, this is Colombia, Phil,” he muttered.  “I’m pretty sure we can find enough coffee somewhere to satisfy even your addiction.”

“No doubt,” Phil agreed, and moved to climb out of bed.

“Hey,” Clint said, gently stopping him with a hand on Phil’s arm.  “We’ve got a few more hours before we need to check in with Maria again.  You can get some more sleep.”

Phil sighed, scrubbing a hand on his face.  Along his jaw, his salt and pepper stubble glinted in the light.  Clint had the sudden image of Phil even more unshaven, sitting in a lounger on a beach, in a white shirt unbuttoned enough to show his chest.  If Clint was lucky enough, there might even be rum.

“Sadly, if I’m going to read you in on the situation with the Winter Soldier, there’ll be no time for more napping,” Phil said.

Okay, that was blatantly unfair.  “Is it really that important?” Clint asked.

Phil nodded.  “It could be.  And with Rumlow in play, I want to be prepared.”

“That’s why you didn’t protest when Maria wanted us to stick around as backup,” Clint said, following the logic.  Crap.  Things were going to get messy, and not in the fun way.  He could just tell.

“Yeah.”  Phil blew out another sigh and let Clint tug him back down into the sheets.

Clint pushed himself up on an elbow, and leaned down to press a soft, closed-mouth kiss to Phil’s lips.  “Okay, so how about I make you a deal?” he suggested.  “I’ll go make the coffee so you can tell me all about things, and you nap until I’m done?”

Phil looked like he wanted to protest, so Clint narrowed his eyes until Phil huffed.  “Okay,” he said.

The small kitchen in the safehouse _was_ in fact stocked with coffee.  Clint managed to dig it out of the cupboard after pulling on his underwear and pants.  There was also a small battered french press, so after boiling some water on the stove, Clint managed to fill two mugs with thick, black coffee.  He made it just the way Phil preferred, which was pretty much as concentrated a dose of caffeine as he could physically prepare.

“Coffee’s up,” he said, walking back into the bedroom.

Yawning, Phil pulled himself up to sit back against the bed’s small headboard.  Clint didn’t hide the way his gaze roamed appreciatively down Phil’s chest.  As fun as the shower had been, now wasn’t the time to start anything they couldn’t finish, but Clint didn’t want Phil to think he didn’t like the view.

“Thanks,” Phil said, accepting one of the mugs when Clint passed it over.

“So,” Clint said, drawling out the word.  He sat down on the bed, his leg bent so he could face Phil, and raised both his eyebrows.  “What do I need to know about the Winter Soldier that I don’t already know?”

Phil blinked and arched an eyebrow.  “What _do_ you already know?” he asked.

“Well,” Clint said, blowing out a sigh.  “I know the Winter Soldier was once James Buchanan Barnes.  That’s why Steve is so caught up in finding him.”  He glanced down at the dark coffee in his mug.  “And I know Natasha is somehow connected to him.  More than just that whole thing in Odessa, anyway.  She hasn’t told me any details, but she gets quiet when Steve or Sam brings him up.”

Clint froze, some of Bobbi’s words coming back to him.  “Wait -- Bobbi said the brainwashing.  That the Winter Soldier was starting to remember who he was…   _Fuck_ , is he remembering that he’s Steve’s _Bucky_?”

Phil smiled, but it was bittersweet.  “As always, you see more than you think,” he said.  “And truthfully, I have no idea what the Winter Soldier is starting to remember, but it’s not outside the realm of possibility.”

When Clint glared, Phil sighed and ran a hand over his face.  “No one we’ve spoken to, at SHIELD or any of the experts outside of it, has any idea how much -- if _any_ \-- of James Barnes remains.  Presumably, he’s been under Red Room control since he was found by Zola in 1945,” Phil said.  “We don’t even know how he’s still alive.”

Clint closed his eyes.  “Fuck.”  He opened them again, suddenly cold despite the heat of the afternoon.  “So basically, Cap thought his best friend died, and now it turns out that he was saved by some screwed up Nazi-scientists and brainwashed into being an assassin?”

Phil actually put down his coffee and held open his arms.  Clint didn’t need a second invitation, immediately crawling up to burrow into Phil’s chest.  After the shit with Loki, Clint had been doing better, mostly thanks to his therapist.  Even so, he couldn’t stop the shivers wracking his whole body at the thought of being under someone else’s control for _decades_.  Clint wasn’t sure if it made it better or worse that Barnes might not have remembered who he was.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Phil said quietly.  “But if the Winter Soldier’s brainwashing _is_ slipping, Captain Rogers _will_ find him.”

“If Natasha doesn’t first,” Clint replied.  He leaned back enough so that Phil could reach for his coffee again, and Clint could drink his own.  “So how does Natasha fit into this?  If you can tell me?”

Phil nodded and sipped his coffee.  “To start with, I have to explain a few things,” he said.  “As you know, the Red Room began under Department X of the USSR, and so did the Winter Soldier program.  It was overseen by General Vasily Karpov, but he also had heavy links to Hydra.  We don’t know how much the program, and therefore the Red Room, was influenced by that, but either way…”

“Barnes has been in the hands of some really fucking _awful_ assholes for decades?” Clint finished for him.

“Yeah,” Phil agreed.  “That’s one way of putting it.”  He sighed again.  “Barnes was also brought in as a trainer for the Black Widow program.  I don’t know how much contact he would have had with Natasha, but they definitely have history.  She… asked to help Captain Rogers find Barnes.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Clint hissed.  He should _be there_ with Natasha.  Confronting her past was always difficult, and no matter how good Steve was, he didn’t know Natasha like Clint did.

Phil smiled tightly.  “That’s another reason why I wanted to stick around as backup.”

Clint let out a breath.   _Of course_.  Phil wouldn’t let Natasha face this without sticking around in case she needed them.

The ring of the satellite phone interrupted Clint before he could say anything else.  “That’ll be Maria,” Phil said dryly.

Clint huffed out an attempt at a laugh, and passed the phone over.  He listened with half an ear to Phil’s conversation, still trying to wrap his head around what Phil had told him.  When Phil tensed, Clint glanced up and raised his eyebrows in question.

“Uh huh.  No, we can… yes, I _am_ aware of that,” Phil said into the phone, his whole face frowning even as he glanced back at Clint.  “We can be there tomorrow.  Yeah, we… fine.  We’ll check in when we get there.”

Phil sighed and hung up.  “Maria has lost contact with Captain Rogers and his team, and they’ve missed a check-in, but she isn’t too worried,” he explained.  “The last she heard, they were headed for Cartagena, so Maria wants us on the ground.  Intel suggests Rumlow is headed for Cartagena to hit a lab facility, possibly to obtain a biological weapon.  Although the Winter Soldier is no doubt his secondary objective.”

Clint nodded.  “So we have confirmation that the Winter Soldier is in Cartagena?’

Phil shrugged with one shoulder.  “Captain Rogers seems to think so,” he said.

Sipping some coffee, Clint nodded.  Looked like they’d be on the road again soon.  “So what’s the plan?”

“Head to Cartagena, see if Rogers checks in, and do some recon,” Phil said.

“And if Cap doesn’t check in?” Clint asked.

Phil shrugged again.  “Find Rumlow, stop his evil plan, and save the day?” he suggested.

Clint chuckled.  “Well, then,” he said.  “You’d better find your pants.”

<*>

 


	6. Chapter 6

They made it to Cartagena twenty-four hours later.  Phil refused to acknowledge that this was because he’d driven like a bat out of hell when it was his turn, no matter how much Clint had whooped on the corners.  SHIELD had another safehouse in the city, in a crumbling apartment building near the docks in Alto Bosque, but there was no sign of Rogers or his team having used it.

(Of course not.  That would have been too _easy_.)

To blend in, Phil and Clint had both ditched their tac vests and half their gear.  Phil had even rolled the sleeves of his now-wrinkled -- but thankfully washed -- shirt up to his elbows and undone a few more buttons.  Clint’s eyes had lingered when he had, and Phil had hidden the grin in his eyes behind his aviator sunglasses.  Phil might be pushing fifty with a receding hairline, but it was a hell of an ego boost to have an Avenger ogling him.

Not that Phil wasn’t ogling Clint back.  Clint’s black t-shirt stretched tight along his shoulders, and strained against his biceps.  He laughed, loud and bright, as he exchanged broken Spanish with the man selling coffee on the street corner.  The sunlight turned the strands of Clint’s hair almost golden, and Phil’s heart did a little somersault in his chest.

“So,” Clint drawled when he ambled back over, handing one of the coffees to Phil.  He pressed in close, eyes scanning the afternoon crowd behind his own sunglasses.  “Any word from Maria?”

“Not yet,” Phil replied in a low voice.  He took a sip of coffee, trying to hide his words with the cup in case anyone was watching, and then he had to stop and hum in appreciation.  That was _good_ coffee.

Clint chuckled.  “Do we have a plan, or should I just leave you alone with that cup for a while?”

“Smartass,” Phil muttered, but his lips pulled up into a smile, giving him away.  “I’ve uploaded the coordinates for the facility Rumlow is supposed to hit into the GPS.  How do you feel about doing a little recon?”

“Oh, yeah, baby,” Clint said with a smirk.  “I was hoping for an excuse to do some free-running across the rooftops.”

Phil nodded, because who was he to deny Clint a chance to have fun?  “I figure if we want to find Rogers, starting at the facility is a good way to do it,” he said.

“What about you?” Clint asked.

“I’m heading back to the safehouse to see if I can find any security cameras with footage of the street,” Phil said.  “Maybe go over some old SHIELD files.  I want to see if there’s any hint of where the Winter Soldier is and what he’s doing in Cartagena.”

Clint nodded.  “I’ll come with you,” he said.  “I want to grab my bow in case I find a good perch.”

“Hopefully, Rogers will make contact and you won’t have to use it,” Phil said.

“Yeah.”  Clint blew out a sigh and glanced towards Phil.  “Not to tell you what to do, but maybe you want to set up your epic command center closer to the action, just in case?”

Phil opened his mouth, but he had to concede the point.  That was a much better idea.  Particularly if Clint got himself into trouble.  “Yeah, you’re right,” he said.

“Come on,” Clint said, slapping him on the shoulder.  “The world’s not going to save itself.”

<*>

Clint gazed down at the lab facility across the road and watched the activity below.  Before he’d left, Phil had given Clint his binoculars, which was helping a little, but Clint wasn’t relying on them.  He always had seen better at a distance.  The rooftop was hot, and he hadn’t found much shade, but it also wasn’t the worst position he’d ever been in.  Phil had set up his laptop and mini-command center in the lobby of a nearby building.  He’d used his true superpower to make sure no one kicked him out.  Clint had heard the whole thing, and he still wasn’t sure what had happened.

The lab itself was heavily guarded, which meant they _really_ didn’t want Rumlow getting his hands on anything inside.  You didn’t guard buildings like that when they only housed the common flu bug.  There was an armed guard in the booth by the gate, and several more patrolling inside.  The entrance had two concrete barriers blocking everything but the one lane entry.  Even the lab itself was in a good position.  The nearby cross streets were only one way, compromising escape routes, and there were no nearby police stations.  If Rumlow was going to hit the lab in broad daylight, he’d stopped caring about any civilian casualties.  Or being seen.  Clint could see why Maria had been so worried, but the change in Rumlow’s -- and possibly Hydra’s -- behaviour was even more troubling.

“So what do you see, Hawkeye?” Phil asked over the comm.

“The lab’s quiet so far,” Clint relaid.  “There’s also a bulletproof truck up the street, so we’ve got private security on site, too.”

“Well, that’s going to make things fun,” Phil said dryly.  “Any sign of our targets?”

“Not yet, but he’s probably not going to turn up in the red, white and blue,” Clint said.  “What about you?  Found any sign of the Winter Soldier?”

“He’s definitely in Cartagena,” Phil said.  “Using the street cams I can get access to, I’ve tried tracking him, but I can’t tell where he’s going.”

Clint hummed.  That wasn’t good news.  Particularly since no one was sure if the Winter Soldier was still the Hydra-controlled assassin, or if he was Bucky.  There was also no guarantee how he was going to react if he caught sight of Steve -- or Steve caught sight of him.  This whole mission was a potential disaster just _waiting_ to happen, and Clint and Phil were stuck in the middle, as always.

“Wait, I think I’ve got something,” Clint said, catching a flash of blue jacket through his binoculars.

“Rumlow?” Phil asked.

“Negative,” Clint said.  “It’s not Rumlow, and for the record, I have a bad feeling about that.”

“Yeah,” Phil replied.  “Me, too.”

Clint followed the blue jacket through the crowd, because the man wearing it was at least six feet tall and had impressively broad shoulders.  It could just have been a well-built tourist, but Clint didn’t think so.  He snorted when the man turned his head, because _seriously, Steve_?  That ball cap and sunglasses weren’t fooling anyone.

“I’ve got eyes on Cap,” Clint reported.

Now that he could see Steve, Clint scanned all the nearby hiding places for a familiar flash of red hair.  Natasha was usually very difficult to spot when she was in recon-mode, but Clint had run enough missions with her to have an advantage or two.  A few minutes later he found her sitting at a small coffee shop down the block.  She was also wearing large sunglasses like Steve, and Clint snorted.  She normally chose better disguises than that.  The table she was sitting at didn’t give her a very good view of the lab building, which set off alarms in Clint’s head.

“I’ve got eyes on Natasha, too, but I think there’s something else going on,” he said.

“I’ve got Maria on the other line,” Phil said.  “I’ll patch her in.”

Clint heard the buzz in his ear as Maria, presumably in one of the SHIELD Ops Centers, joined the line.  “Hey, Athena,” he greeted, using Maria’s old codename.

“Hawkeye,” Maria replied.  “Tell me what you see.”

“Cap is about a block down the street from the lab, leaning up against a wall and pretending -- very badly -- to read the paper,” Clint said.  “Does he even know Spanish?  The Black Widow is about fifty feet down from him at a small restaurant on the other side of the street, a cup of coffee in front of her that she’s not drinking.  I can’t see the Falcon without moving position, but I’ll bet you five bucks he’s on a rooftop nearby.”

“Is there where I bring up the pot and the kettle?” Maria drawled.

Clint snorted.  “Please,” he replied.  “Rooftops are part of my aesthetic.  That also isn’t the part you should be worried about.”

“Oh?” Maria asked, her tone deceptively mild.

“Yeah.”  Clint let out a slow breath and put down the binoculars.  He could see Natasha’s position well enough without them, and his fingers were itching for his bow.  “Neither Cap nor the Black Widow are in good positions for surveillance on the lab facility.  I don’t think they’re here for it.  They’re here for something else.”

“The Winter Soldier,” Maria said.

“We’ve got another problem,” Phil broke in.  “There’s a garbage truck headed straight for the gate to the lab facility.  High speed and it looks heavy.”

“Shit,” Clint cursed, immediately spotting the truck.

“I also think I’ve found the Falcon,” Phil added.  “Or at least Redwing.”

Sam’s ‘bird’ drone, which he refused to call anything but Redwing, was flying over the garbage truck. Sam had probably ordered Redwing to scan the truck, and as soon as the drone was done, Redwing whipped off to the east.  Presumably towards wherever Sam himself was lurking.  From the speed, Clint figured Redwing had bad news.  He cursed when he saw what Redwing had already spotted.

“They’re going to use the garbage truck as a battering ram,” he said.  “Rumlow’s hitting the lab _now_.”

Naturally, that was the moment that everything lurched into complete frenzied _havoc_.  Clint barely had time to call out a warning as the driver of the garbage truck flung himself out of the driver’s seat and rolled away.  The driver bolted as the now-unmanned truck slammed into the guard booth.  It hit one of the concrete barriers a second later, flipping up on one end with the force of the impact.  The dust and resulting chaos made it hard to see, but the panicked screams had Clint’s stomach clenching.

_Fuck_.

Not even thirty seconds after the truck hit, three black SUVs screeched through the hole in the facility’s gate.  Men in tac gear and carrying lots of weapons poured out.  Rumlow climbed out of the lead SUV, a creepy smirk on his face as he issued orders.

“I’ve got eyes on Rumlow,” Clint said.  “Three SUV convoy pulling up at the lab’s entrance.”

“What the hell is Rumlow trying to do?” Maria snapped.

“I count eight, no, nine hostiles with assault rifles and wearing body armour,” Clint reported.  “Do we have any idea at all what’s inside that lab that Rumlow wants so badly that he’s assembled a strike team to get it?”

“No,” Maria said.  “Not yet.”

Clint nocked an arrow as Rumlow and his goons shot several gas canisters through the windows of the lab building.  “Shit!  Tear gas,” he said.

“Is there any way to disable those SUVs?” Phil asked.

“With or without exploding arrows?” Clint replied.

Phil was silent a beat, so there was a fifty percent chance he was swallowing down a laugh.  Or he would have been in any other situation.  “How about we try it without first?” he said.

“Killjoy,” Clint muttered, but he didn’t really mean it.

Of course, not content to let Rumlow steal the show, that was when Steve and Sam burst onto the scene.  Steve had somehow pulled a fast change like Superman in a phone booth and was now wearing his cowl.  The uniform just made his literal _jump off a building_ even more dramatic.  His shield was out in front of him when he landed on the roof of an SUV, completely smashing it.  Clint was kind of impressed at the level of casual destruction.  Rumlow’s goons wasted no time in opening fire, but Steve’s epic superhero entrance was also a great distraction.  Sam swooped in with his winged jetpack over Steve’s shoulder and took out two of the goons in about five seconds.

(Not that Clint was jealous of the acrobatic ease with which Sam actually _flew_.)

“Okay, shit, Cap really _did_ bring the red, white and blue,” Clint muttered, resisting the urge to scan the chaos for Natasha.  She could take care of herself.

“Where’s Rumlow?” Maria snapped, voice thick with tension.

“Heading straight for Cap,” Clint replied.

And he was.  Clint had no idea what sort of vengeful grudge Rumlow had for Steve, but it was enough for Rumlow to abandon the rest of the battle.  Slamming his shield into a goon hard enough to send him flying, Steve spun to face Rumlow’s charge.  They both stopped dead in their tracks, just as Phil said, “Hawkeye, I have movement.  East side of the lab.”

Clint glanced over just in time to see a man in dark clothes plummet down from the roof.  For a mad second, Clint thought it was Steve, because very few people could leap like that.  Then he saw the long dark hair.

Bucky.

_Shit_ , Clint hadn’t even _seen_ Bucky on the roof of the lab building, but there was no mistaking that metal arm.  “Fuck, Phil did you…” Clint began, but he was cut off by a large explosion ripping apart the air.

Clint staggered back with the force of the shockwave, but it did nothing to drown out the sudden pounding of his heart.  That explosion had come from right beside the building that _Phil was in_.

“ _Phil_?” Clint snapped, but his ears were ringing too much to hear his own voice, let alone an answer.  “Fuck, _please_ be okay, Phil.”

Even with his sharp eyes, Clint was finding it hard to follow the chaos.  There was no sign of Steve, Sam, or Natasha among the billowing dust, smoke and debris.

“...ton!   _Barton_!  Talk to me,” Maria’s voice swam into focus over the comms.  She wasn’t frantic, because Maria was _never_ frantic, but her calm _was_ slipping.

“I’m here,” Clint croaked, breaking off to cough.

“Status report,” Maria said, immediately back to business.

Clint peered back over the roof’s edge, re-nocking his arrow.  “There’s no sign of Cap or the Winter Soldier,” he said, trying not to think about the implications of that.

Rumlow was down near one of the now-smoking SUVs, but he didn’t look fatally injured.  Clint’s fingers itched to send an arrow or three his way and change that.  Sam was still on his feet and as Clint watched, he used his wings to execute an impressive spinning kick that sent another two goons sprawling.

“Rumlow is down, but he’s getting back up, and Falcon just took out two more Hydra assholes,” Clint reported.  He scanned the scene again, desperately searching for any sign of Phil or Natasha.  “I… wait.  I’ve got eyes on the Winter Soldier and, um.  Cap’s kind of cornered him?”

“He’s _what_?” Maria barked.

Steve had the Winter Soldier backed up against the wall of the lab building, but he wasn’t holding his shield.  He’d also stretched his hands out to the sides, as if to prove he wasn’t armed.  Bucky’s gaze was fixed on Steve’s face and whatever Steve was saying, and it didn’t look like he was about to start punching his way out.

“They’re just talking, I think,” Clint said.

Sucking in a deep breath, Clint let it out slowly.  He was a goddamn professional.  It was the only reason he was able to focus on reporting the scene to Maria.  More than that, he had every faith in Phil’s ability to kick ass, but Phil had also _died_ not long ago.  The nausea at not hearing Phil’s voice was rising up in Clint’s throat, along with a healthy dose of panic.  “Athena, please tell me you have eyes on Phil?” he asked before he could stop himself.

Maria was silent for a beat.  “Negative, Hawkeye.  I…”

“I’m here.”

Phil’s voice was kind of wrecked, thick with pain or dust or maybe both, but he was _alive_.  Clint sucked in a ragged breath and closed his suddenly burning eyes.   _Thank fuck_.  The wave of relief that washed through Clint almost made him dizzy, but Clint didn’t have time to dwell.  “About time, Phil,” he said, and if his voice was shaking, he could blame that on the adrenaline.

“So sorry to keep you waiting,” Phil drawled, and Clint let out a deep breath as his shoulders relaxed.  If Phil was cracking jokes, he was fine.

Movement caught Clint’s eye and he snapped back into focus.  “Shit,” he said.  “Three of Rumlow’s goons have made it into the building.”  There was a flash of red hair behind them, and Clint grinned as the last of the vice squeezing his heart fell away.  “Black Widow is in pursuit.  Permission to join her?”

Phil huffed, but he couldn’t hide his amusement.  Not from Clint.  “Go,” he said.

“Gone, Boss,” Clint replied.

<*>

Phil groaned softly, pain flaring through his new bruises.  He was getting too old to be caught in explosions, dammit.  At least the blood had stopped trickling down from the cut above his eyebrow, even if it did still feel as if a truck had landed on him.  He pushed through the pain anyway, because he’d had worse, and now really wasn’t the time to get distracted.  He needed to move, and now that he’d lost his mobile command center, he needed to find out what was going on.  In his ear, Clint was fighting his way through the Hydra soldiers in the lab building.  Phil could only hear the odd grunt as Clint did his thing, and one side of the banter he and Natasha always indulged in.  It was more comforting than Phil wanted to admit.

Peering around a large pile of rubble and a blown out car, Phil adjusted the comm in his ear and flicked his gaze over the area, quick and assessing.  There was no sign of any Hydra soldiers moving around, so they were either inside the lab facility or dead.  Sam Wilson was running for the lab building, Redwing swooping through the air ahead of him, but Phil was too far away to hear what he was saying.

To Phil’s left, Captain Rogers was standing protectively in front of Barnes, Rumlow only a few feet away.  Phil swallowed heavily. Rumlow had clearly cut short whatever conversation Clint had seen earlier and Phil still had no idea what they were dealing with.  Or how much of Bucky had fought through the Winter Soldier programming.  It was the kind of volatile situation that Phil _hated_.

“What do you see, Phil?” Maria said, her voice crackling in his damaged comm.  “Talk to me.”

“I have eyes on Rumlow,” Phil replied, as quietly as he could.  The last thing he wanted to do was alert any of the three men he was watching.

“Captain,” Rumlow called out, throwing his arms wide as he grinned.  The expression was more than a little unhinged.  “Aren’t you going to say hello?”  His eyes flicked over Rogers’ shoulder toward Bucky.  “And look, you’ve even found the Winter Soldier for me.”

Rogers clenched his jaw, but before he could voice the anger gathering in his eyes, Bucky spoke up from behind him.  “My name is _Bucky_ , asshole,” he growled.

Phil blinked.  Well, that answered the question of how much Bucky remembered.

“Aww, he remembers after all,” Rumlow taunted.  His gaze flicked back to Rogers.  “He did that before, has he told you?  I was there when he remembered you, his pal, his buddy.  He got all weepy about seeing you on that bridge until they put his brain back in a blender.”

Rogers’ jaw tightened and everything was about five seconds away from erupting into violence -- which had probably been Rumlow’s goal.  Only the fact that he’d lost his shield somewhere seemed to be holding Rogers back.  Bucky didn’t seem to have that limitation, his fists clenching as he took a step forward, but his eyes glanced sideways at Phil as he did.  Phil swallowed, his eyes widening a fraction.

Bucky knew he was there.

Which was lucky.  Phil spotted movement just behind Rumlow and realized why Rumlow hadn’t attacked yet.  He was waiting for backup.  Ahead of them, two Hydra soldiers were taking up positions among the rubble.  Phil frowned, because there seemed to be a hell of a lot more Hydra assholes than the nine Clint had counted.

“Phil,” Maria said over the comms.  “You’re supposed to keep talking.  What’s going on?  Hawkeye, have you got eyes on that asshole?”

Clint grunted.  “I’m a little busy, Athena,” he said breathlessly.

Glancing around and ignoring Maria, Phil tried to come up with a plan because the shit was about to hit the fan.  He blinked when he spotted Rogers’ shield, dusty and half covered by debris, and got an idea.  He looked back at Bucky and gestured at himself and then in the direction of the shield, hoping it was enough.  Bucky frowned, his jaw flexing, but Rumlow and the two Hydra soldiers were too close for him to argue.  He gave in with a tiny nod and Phil blew out a breath of relief.

(He’d done some crazy things in his life, but this was probably going in the Top Ten of Stupid Shit.)

“Okay,” Maria muttered.  “No one tell me anything.  That’s fine.  I’ll just glare at the satellite feed and try to _telepathically intuit_ what you’re all about to do.”

Phil carefully moved a few steps to the left, still crouched.  He made sure to keep Bucky, Rogers, and Rumlow in his line of sight as Bucky shifted closer to Rogers.  Rumlow was still taunting them both, but Phil ignored him.  Closing his hand around a chunk of concrete, Phil sucked in a deep breath.  Then he sent the concrete skidding along the ground until it smacked into a car with a loud clatter.

Rumlow’s head snapped up in the direction of the noise.  Behind him, Bucky pulled out a knife and moved. Somehow, Rumlow must have sensed him, because before Bucky -- or a startled Rogers -- could close the distance, Rumlow spun back and brought up his gun. Bucky darted forwards, grabbing the rifle and pointing the barrel upwards as Rumlow pulled the trigger.

The burst of gunfire was loud, catching the attention of the other two Hydra soldiers. Phil tore his eyes away from Bucky, because there was a time and a place to indulge his inner eight-year-old, and _this was not it_.

There was no point to subtlety anymore, so Phil surged to his feet.  He shot one of the Hydra soldiers three times in the chest, and the other whirled towards him.  Phil sprinted forwards, diving under a wild spray of bullets. Phil’s hip slammed into the ground hard enough to send a jolt of pain up his side, and there was enough rubble that he felt the bite of gravel through his pants.  Even so, Phil never took his eyes off his target, and the second soldier went down with a shot to the head.

Whipping around, Phil immediately looked for Bucky and Rogers, swallowing hard when he saw Bucky grappling with Rumlow.  One of Rumlow’s hands was around Bucky’s throat, the other fighting to keep the knife away from his face.  Rogers had thrown himself to the side and scooped up his shield, but he seemed to have frozen, his blue eyes locked on the fight.

Drawing in a slow breath, Phil sighted down the barrel of his gun and squeezed the trigger.  Rumlow sagged, the bullets not fatal, but they were enough to give Bucky the advantage.  Pivoting sharply, Bucky used the superior strength in his metal arm to wrench the knife away from Rumlow’s grip.  Breathing hard, Bucky stabbed him straight in the heart and watched as Rumlow’s body sagged to the ground.

“Agent Coulson?” Rogers said in the following silence.  “Where did you come from?”

Phil arched an eyebrow, ignoring how much it hurt.  The damn cut at his hairline was still dripping blood.  “I’m half of the backup team you _didn’t_ call for,” he said.

“Is that Rogers?” Maria asked.  “Tell him that I want to have _words_ with him!”

Rogers huffed, frowning, but Phil was more worried about Bucky, so he didn’t bother repeating Maria’s words yet.  “Are you okay, Sergeant?” he asked.

Bucky glanced up and blinked.  “Sergeant?” he echoed.  His eyes flashed with an indefinable emotion before he smirked.  “Shit, you’re military, aren’t you?”

Phil smirked right back, but his sarcastic response was lost when his knees stopped holding him up for a second.  A firm hand on his elbow prevented him from falling over.  Phil closed his eyes for a moment in an attempt to persuade his vision to stop fading in and out around the edges.  When he opened his eyes again, he blinked up into Bucky’s face.  “Are _you_ okay, Agent?” Bucky asked.

Phil cleared his throat.  “I’m fine,” he said, but he didn’t move away from Bucky’s steadying grip.

“Sure, pal,” Bucky said dryly.

“ _Phil_ ,” Clint’s voice growled in his ear.  “Are you hiding a life-threatening injury _again_?  Because if you’re standing there bleeding from a serious organ, you are sleeping on the couch for a _month_.”

Phil smiled faintly.  He never managed to slip anything past Clint, and he wasn’t sure why he even bothered anymore.  “It’s just a little dizziness.  It’s barely a concussion,” he said.  “I’ll be fine in a second.”

“You’d better be,” Clint snapped.

Rolling his eyes, Phil smiled at Bucky and took a step back.  “Don’t you have Hydra agents you’re supposed to be stopping?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Clint grumbled.

Rogers raised his eyebrows.  “Is that Barton?” he asked.

“Yes,” Phil replied.  “He’d be the other half of the backup team you didn’t call for.”

Bucky smirked.  “He’s got your number, Rogers.”

Phil sent Rogers a flat look.  “You might want to flip your comms to channel four.  Commander Hill has some words for you,” he said.

Probably. Maria had been suspiciously silent for the last two minutes, so she might have given up on everyone who wasn’t telling her what she wanted to know.

“Yes, well, according to the world, Bucky’s a ghost,” Rogers said.  His hands were clenched on his shield and his gaze was fixed somewhere over Phil’s shoulder.  “This is hardly the situation where the authorities are the first ones you call.”

Clint snorted over his and Phil’s private comm channel.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Everyone knows _that’s_ the Ghostbusters.”

Phil’s heart seized in his chest because sometimes Clint was too perfect to be _real_.  “Oh my God, _marry me_ ,” Phil said, and _fuck_.  That was not the request for a status update that Phil had been intending to voice.

Phil absolutely did not descend into a quiet panic.

He blinked, trying to breathe calmly.  Bucky sent him a confused glance, but thankfully, Natasha ghosted up beside Rogers a second later and distracted him.  “ _Please_ talk to Hill,” she said, passing over a radio handset to Rogers.  “She’s already yelled at me once, and she’s only getting angrier.”

“Ah, Phil?” Clint said.  “Did you just _propose_?”

Letting out a slow breath, Phil closed his eyes.   _Smooth, Coulson_.  Blinking them open again, he retreated a few steps because he could do without an audience for this.  “Yeah, I think I did,” he said, because Clint deserved an answer.  “I wasn’t exactly intending to ask like this, though.”

Clint was silent for long enough that Phil’s heart started to pound sickeningly against his ribs.  “But you did intend to ask?” Clint said.

“Yes,” Phil replied.  His palms were sweaty.  How did people _do this_?

“Jesus, Phil,” Clint muttered.  Phil swallowed, bracing himself for Clint to tell him to stop trying to ruin a good thing.  “I’m going to pay you back for finally asking when I’m two blocks away on a roof and _can’t kiss you right now_.”

Phil blinked.  “Wait, what?”

“That’s a _yes_ , you dumbass,” Clint said.  “You’re not as subtle as you think.”

Phil ran a hand over his face, the rasp of stubble rough on his palm.  “Okay, good,” he said, because _priorities, Phillip_.  “Can we maybe talk about this later?”

Clint huffed.  “Yeah, yeah, mission first,” he replied.  “Falcon and I just took out the last of the assholes, so you can tell Athena -- whenever she’s finished yelling at Cap -- that clean up’s all hers.”  Clint’s pause for breath was almost smug.  “And Phil?  I’ll see you in about three minutes.”

“Please,” Phil said.  As embarrassing as his timing was, there was something very _relieving_ about having finally asked the question that had been burning a hole in his chest for the last month and a half.

Besides, he wanted to kiss Clint, too.

<*>

 


	7. Chapter 7

Clint grunted softly as his boots hit the ground, but he didn’t slow down.  Sirens were piercing the air, and it was time to disappear and let someone else deal with the clean up, but there was something Clint had to do first.

He loved Phil, he _really_ did, with a kind of knee-shaking, heartbeat-skipping strength, but _fuck_ , did that man have to work on his sense of timing.   _Seriously_.  Who proposed in the middle of a gunfight with Hydra?

Phillip Jonathan Coulson, apparently.

Why Phil had chosen to propose at that exact moment remained a mystery to Clint.  At least it explained why Phil had been so tense and grumpy for the last three months.  Phil really did hate it when he couldn’t carry out his plans.  And Clint had meant it when he’d said Phil wasn’t as subtle as he thought.

(Not that Clint had expected a marriage proposal.  He’d worked out that Phil had been planning something big, and he’d _hoped_ , but he hadn’t expected it, okay?)

Clint’s heart was still pounding a little, a giddy feeling rising up from his stomach that only intensified when he caught sight of Phil.  He was standing in the rubble near Steve and Bucky, his shirt still half unbuttoned and those ridiculous spook sunglasses on his face.   _Shit_ , Clint loved that man.

Ignoring Steve, Bucky, and Natasha -- when did she get there? -- Clint jogged straight up to Phil.  He had a promise to keep.  Phil watched his approach with a small smile, and Clint suddenly wished he could see the way Phil’s eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Clint,” Phil greeted, but Clint cut him off.

“No, shut up.”  He was vaguely aware of Sam landing behind him and asking questions, but Clint was focused on Phil.  “You…” he muttered, not entirely sure he could find the right words.

He let out a breath, and after tugging off his gloves, stepped up to Phil so he could slide Phil’s sunglasses off Phil’s face and drop them into his shirt pocket.  Phil arched an eyebrow, but Clint ignored him, instead gently cupping Phil’s face with his hands.  Swallowing, Clint looked up into Phil’s blue eyes and shivered at what he saw reflected there: wonder, amusement, and bone-deep love.

“You are one of the most ridiculous men I have ever met, and your timing is _shit_ ,” Clint said, his voice suddenly thick.  “But you’re also amazing and a badass, and really, is it any wonder I can’t help but love you?”

Phil blinked, his cheeks flushing, and he cleared his throat.  “I love you, too, Clint,” he said softly.

“Damn right you do,” Clint agreed, and tugged Phil in for a kiss.

He caught a glimpse of Phil’s widening smile before he pressed his lips to Phil’s.  The contact made him hiss, because he’d completely forgotten that a Hydra asshole had split his lip via a punch to the face.  When Phil moved to step back, Clint fisted his hands in Phil’s shirt to keep Phil anchored against him.  Kissing Phil was worth a little pain.

Phil grunted, and not in the good way, but he didn’t stop kissing Clint either, so Clint ignored it for now.  Phil distracted him by leaning into the kiss, his hands reaching out to pull Clint firmly against him.  Sparks of warmth flickered underneath Clint’s skin and he shuddered, because Clint _really_ didn’t want to stop kissing Phil.  Not for at least three days, audience or not.

“Whoa,” Clint vaguely heard Sam say.  “Get a room, guys!”

Phil pulled back enough to rest his forehead against Clint’s.  “I always forget how uncomfortable it is to kiss you in your tac gear,” he muttered.

Clint grinned because he didn’t think he’d be able to stop, even if Stark paid him a million dollars.  “And yet, you keep doing it.”

“I think it’s sweet,” Steve said, and Clint _knew_ there’d been a reason he’d liked Rogers.

“I’m pretty sure Barton was mapping Agent Coulson’s tonsils with his tongue,” Sam replied.  “I wouldn’t call that sweet.”

Steve huffed, and Clint grinned at Phil, still pressed close and unable to help himself.  “No, I mean it’s sweet how much they still love each other,” Steve said, and dammit, that was wistfulness in his tone.  Clint resigned himself to doing whatever it took to sort out the shit with Bucky.  Steve deserved his happily ever after, too.  “Natasha says they’ve been together a long time.”

“It _is_ sweet,” Natasha agreed.  “Also frequently nauseating and often frustrating, but sweet.”

“Shut up, Tash,” Clint said, pulling himself away from his _fiancé_ , and fuck, wasn’t that a trip?  “I just got engaged.”

Natasha’s eyes widened a fraction and she grinned.  “I call dibs on being best man at the wedding!” she said.

Clint glanced away from Phil to shoot Natasha a reproachful glare.  “Who else was I gonna ask?” he said.

Phil laughed.

And that’s when the police turned up.

<*>

It took Phil two hours to coordinate the cleanup with local authorities and Maria, and to make sure the Hydra strike team was all accounted for.  Not to mention the smoothing of ruffled feathers to make up for the Avengers’ presence, even though it was only half the team.  By the time he was done, Phil was _exhausted_ and was really hoping he had a way home.  Thankfully, he’d already been looked over by an EMT, and aside from the small cut on his head, he was just bruised and a little battered.

“Hey,” Clint said quietly, stepping up beside Phil.  He shouldn’t have been surprised that Clint was sticking close.  “Maria’s sending a ‘jet.  It should be here soon.”

Phil rubbed a hand over his face.  “Good.”

Clint snorted.  “Oh, come here,” he muttered, and pulled Phil into a hug.

Letting out a sigh, Phil relaxed against Clint’s strong chest, even though Clint was still wearing his tac vest and quiver.  Clint’s hands were warm when they slid under Phil’s shirt, and Phil had to smile when Clint pressed a gentle kiss to his temple.

“I think I need another shower,” Phil said.

Chuckling softly, Clint tightened his arms around Phil.  “Only if I can join you,” he replied.

The thought of him and Clint somewhere private kept Phil warm until the ‘jet arrived, even after Clint left him to go and find coffee.  Sharon, through a combination of cheerful smiling and unrelenting efficiency, extracted them from the Colombian authorities.  Phil offered her a tired smile of his own as he walked up the ‘jet’s ramp.

Clint had already been inside, even though there was no sign of him now -- each of the seats had been carefully labelled using bright purple sticky notes.  When Clint had gotten purple sticky notes Phil didn’t know -- or want to know.  He noted with amusement that he and Clint had the whole back to themselves, which was probably about as much privacy as you could get on a SHIELD quinjet.

Closing his eyes, Phil sank down into his assigned seat.  The seat was surprisingly comfortable, although that could just be Phil’s exhaustion talking.  Phil didn’t particularly care.  He was about to fly somewhere he’d be able to grab a cup or three of coffee and a full eight hours sleep, which was about as close to paradise as Phil would get.  It would be better if Clint was with him, of course, but Phil had every faith the archer would turn up.

“Coffee delivery!” Clint called out, jolting Phil out of what he refused to acknowledge was a doze.  He blinked at the cardboard cup hovering in front of his face.

“Thank you?” he said, his voice rough.

“Well,” Clint drawled, his eyes dancing as he pulled the coffee back.  “If you don’t want it…”

“Give me the coffee, Barton,” Phil growled because now he could _smell it_ , and that was just cruel.

Chuckling, Clint passed it over and dropped into the seat right next to Phil.  His casual sprawl belied the way he was pressed against Phil from thigh to shoulder.  Carefully, Clint reached out towards Phil’s free hand, curling their fingers together as Phil sipped at his hot coffee.  Phil decided not to ask where Clint had got the coffee, either.  It was probably the same place as the post-its.

Around them, noise reigned as Captain Rogers, Sam, Sergeant Barnes, and Natasha all staggered into the ‘jet, Sharon following as the ramp closed behind them.  Sam snorted when he saw the post-its everywhere.  “You’re hilarious, Barton,” he said.

“Hey, you’re the one that was complaining about the kissing,” Clint shot back.  “I’m just trying to protect your delicate sensibilities.”

“Fuck you,” Sam said good-naturedly.  “My sensibilities are not delicate.”

“Boys, don’t make me separate you,” Sharon said as she made her way towards the cockpit.

Phil hid a smile behind his coffee cup, because at the controls, Melinda was wondering why she’d let any of them onto her ‘jet.  Phil would bet fifty bucks on it.

“Ugh, I want at least three days downtime after this,” Natasha said.  She took her seat next to Captain Rogers, who was fighting a losing battle against smiling.

Phil made a mental note to send Captain Rogers on more group missions.  They were clearly good for him.  “You and me, both,” he told Natasha.

“ _Fuck_ yes,” Clint muttered.

Natasha glanced at Clint, narrowing her eyes.  Clint scrunched his nose in response, making Natasha roll her eyes. The bond between Clint and Natasha had always been closer than their friendship with Phil.  What they had wasn’t easily explained, but they were still always there for Phil when he needed them. To Phil, they’d always been heroes, but sometimes their unstinting loyalty and selflessness took Phil’s breath away.  Right now, however, Phil had to bite back a chuckle as Natasha poked her tongue out at Clint.

Bucky was watching them all through wide eyes, but he also didn’t stray more than two steps from Rogers.  He finally gave in and perched on the seat next to the Captain, looking the whole time like someone was three seconds away from locking him up.  Phil didn’t blame him.  He considered them lucky that Rogers and Natasha had been able to coax him onto the ‘jet in the first place.

“Everyone buckle up,” Melinda said over the ‘jet’s internal comm.  “We’re wheels up in thirty.”

Phil let himself list sideways until his head was resting on Clint’s shoulder.  He smiled when Clint shifted his arm so Phil was more comfortable and started carding his fingers through Clint’s hair.  “Hey, do you think Mel would let me…” Clint asked.

Phil cut him off.  “No.”

“But, Phil…”

“No.”  Phil sighed.  “Just stay here.  Please?”

“Okay,” Clint said agreeably.

Phil squinted up at him, because Clint never gave in that easily.  Clint snorted.  “Don’t give me that look,” he muttered.  “You asked me to marry you today.  I’m still high on the endorphins.”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works,” Phil said, but he closed his eyes again.

“Go to sleep, Phil,” Clint told him, stealing Phil’s coffee cup from his lax grip.

“Mmm ‘kay,” Phil replied, already half-asleep.

Phil blinked open his eyes again when Clint nudged him awake.  Yawning, Phil rubbed a hand over his face and sat up.  He’d been slumped over at an angle that his neck wouldn’t forgive him for, and judging by the hum of the engines, they were in mid-flight.  He’d been asleep for a while.  He turned a questioning eyebrow on Clint, because if they weren’t landing, he could still be napping.

“Maria,” Clint mouth at him and pointed up towards the ‘jet’s roof.

And, _ugh_.  This was not good.

“Okay, listen up,” Maria’s voice said, echoing over the ‘jet’s comm.  “We have a situation in Belize, and you’re the closest SHIELD team, so you’re being diverted.”

Phil frowned.   _Of course_.  “We’re not all supersoldiers, Maria.  Some of us need sleep.  Or more coffee.”

“Sure, let me just tell Hydra to try again tomorrow because it doesn’t suit your schedule, Phil,” Maria drawled.

Captain Rogers sent him a sympathetic look before glancing up.  “What’s the mission, ma’am?”

“We’ve received reports that Hydra goons have taken over a hotel in San Pedro.  They’re holding the guests hostage -- including the daughter of a US Senator,” Maria said.  “The local authorities are already on scene, but Hydra operations are SHIELD’s territory.  I need a strike team to go in and rescue the hostages.  And guess what?  You’re it.”

“Seriously?” Clint snapped.

Phil nodded solemnly, and leaned over to Clint.  “Ours is not to reason why,” he said.

Clint rolled his eyes.  “You are so full of shit,” he replied.  He sighed.  “We’re never going to get to Bora Bora, are we?”

Phil slipped his hand into Clint’s.  “I’ll take you for our honeymoon.”

Clint glanced at him.  “I’m holding you to that.”

“So how are we getting in?” Natasha asked Maria with a sly glance at Rogers.  “Since not all of us can just jump out of a plane without a parachute.”

Barnes blinked and glared at Rogers.  “She’s kidding, right?”

“Well…” Rogers hedged.

“No one is jumping out of any planes,” Maria said firmly.

“She says that _now_ ,” Clint muttered in Phil’s ear.

Phil snorted, bringing up his and Clint’s joined hands to press a kiss to the back of Clint’s.  Despite Maria’s attempts to keep the briefing on track, it was slowly descending into utter chaos.  He shared a glance with Clint.

Neither of them would change it for the world.

 

The End.


End file.
